


Love Me to the End

by Sleepless_Malice



Series: Fair Shall the End Be [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Era, Canon Events told from unusual perspectives, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gift Fic, Halls of Mandos, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Greek Mythology, M/M, Sexual Content, The Valar, Worldbuilding, and beyond, more in the a/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Many songs tell of Fëanor's creations; of jewels and Silmarils; of the consequences of his oath. But no tale ever tells of Fëanor’s afterlife.The story of Fëanor and Námo throughout the ages. From Fëanor's childhood to his time in the Halls of Awaiting.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Námo | Mandos, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Námo | Mandos
Series: Fair Shall the End Be [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621174
Comments: 52
Kudos: 44
Collections: 2020 My Slashy Valentine





	1. Obsession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalendeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/gifts).



> written for My Slashy Valentine 2020. 
> 
> This happens when all of a sudden somebody requests your absolute rare ship OTP.
> 
>   * Tagged for Fëanor & Námo as many chapters of this story can be read as Gen/Worldbuilding fic. The chapters to avoid are Ch02, Ch07 & Ch08.
>   * The fic is tagged "Consent Issues" for what happens in Chapter 02. Although any sexual content is consensual, Chapter 02 is dubious consent regardless.
>   * A HUGE HUGE **THANK YOU** to my wonderful beta reader, [bunn @ AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn) for her awesome work on this story <3
>   * Thanks to [raiyana @ AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana) for initial plotting.
>   * Many things inspired this story. I added the section at the very end of this work.
> 

> 
> _Dear Kalendeer,_   
>  _I have no idea how you guessed that it could be me, but you were right. I'm your creator for MSV2020, and I hope you'll like this 'little' story._

*

[ ](https://ibb.co/M9GrTQY)

*

* * *

_Many legends are told of the day Fëanor has come into the world, and many things that should not have been forgotten were lost._

_Not so the history of Fëanor; over thousands of years his history has become legend, without compensating for the fell deeds his oath has brought._

_Many songs tell of Fëanor's creations; of jewels and Silmarils; of the consequences of his oath, but no tale ever tells of Fëanor’s afterlife._

* * *

Tired of living, and scared of dying, Míriel has laid herself down to rest.

Every so often Fëanor, her son, and his father come to the Gardens of Lórien, contemplating Míriel’s decision. As Irmo tells the tale, they pick flowers on the soft meadow, roses, crocuses and violets, whilst around them, iris and hyacinth stand in full bloom.

Then, Fëanor goes to the place where his mother sleeps. He lays each carefully picked flower down, telling her everything he thinks is worth telling. And whilst he does, tears stream down his face.

That is when Námo first lays eyes upon the grieving youth.

Fëanor is just a boy, barely older than a toddler. And yet he is forced to experience the pain of loss that he was never meant to feel. Námo takes his time to observe. Fëanor’s hair is dark, black as the nuances of the Everlasting Darkness, which Melkor has woven into the Music of the Ainur, whilst his eyes are like molten silver, matching his mother’s hair.

Even at his young age, Fëanor is far more beautiful than any flower blossoming in Irmo’s garden; surpassing even Finwë’s own beauty. But that is not truly what catches Námo’s attention: there’s a strange darkness about the boy, of the kind that Námo does not yet fully understand. The hurt and grief of the Eldar is very much Námo’s concern. His siblings, Irmo and Nienna, feel the same, and the bitter tears Nienna weeps are the Eldar’s own.

Námo’s gaze wanders from Fëanor towards Finwë.

The sorrow of Finwë is grave. His soul is wrinkled, both in worry and despair, and his clothing of mourning only adds to the effect. Námo doesn’t doubt the sincerity of Finwë’s mourning, but his motives are partly selfish: he feels lost and helpless, but most of all, he’s contemplating the fact that he is now alone.

In contrast to that, Fëanor’s grief is pure. Námo feels sorry that the boy must be burdened with loss at such an early age. He’s begging his mother to come back, blaming himself for her loss, with pain twisting his guts. Grief always veils souls in darkness, but it isn’t that kind of darkness Námo perceives in Fëanor.

*

The first meeting between Námo and Fëanor is entirely one of chance.

Just when Námo is about to withdraw, suddenly afraid that his presence might invade the boy’s grief, Fëanor turns around.

Fëanor looks at Námo, then at his father across the distance, then back at Námo. His eyes are wide and filled with curiosity.

“Who are you?” Fëanor asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Fëanáro!” Finwë intervenes, but Námo raises his hand to demand silence.

Then, he kneels down so that he’s on eye-level with the boy, surprised that Fëanor doesn’t shy away. “Perhaps, you have heard my name before,” Námo says, observing. “I am Námo, Judge of the Valar, Lord of the Dead.”

“Dead?” Fëanor inquires, wrinkling his nose. “But these are the lands of the undying. There’s no-one dead.”

 _Not yet._ Námo bites his tongue. Although Miriel appears to be sleeping, her fëa already begs entrance to the Halls of Awaiting. “No, my halls are empty,” he says instead.

“Oh,” Fëanor says, looking at his mother’s bed with a fondness Námo has never seen before, then back at Námo. “You must be lonely then, just as my mother is. But we come often to visit her. Perhaps, I can come and visit you too?”

Námo is amazed by the boy’s clear sight and kindness.

Finwë strides forward, inclining his head towards Námo. “I thank you for your time, Lord Námo. My sincere apologies. I hope he has not caused offense with his careless words.” he says, then grabs Fëanor by the arm. Námo is surprised by Finwë’s reaction. “Fëanáro! I hope you are not attempting to speak out of place – again,” he scolds his son.

Námo shakes his head. “So far he has not.”

In fact, he wishes that Finwë hadn’t intervened. An encounter like this is rare enough for Námo, who usually prefers to keep to himself in his halls, far away from the main settlements of the Eldar.

“What are your halls like?” The boy asks, and Námo allows gentle bemusement to lift his eyes. He is surprised that Fëanor does not let the matter rest, actively defying his father’s demand to hold his silence. “And why are your fingers boney, and your eyes purple?”

Finwë sighs. “This is exactly what I meant before,” he explains to Námo, before addressing Fëanor again. “Come, let us go now, Fëanáro.”

Fëanor remains rooted to the ground so that Finwë tries to pull him along at his arm.

“No.” Fëanor wrestles free of his father’s hold. “I need to say good-bye to mother, first,” he tells his father, then turns around towards Námo. “Good-bye.”

Námo watches him kissing his mother’s hands, withdrawing silently.

*

Míriel’s suffering is more than Estë’s Maiar and Irmo’s dreams can heal.

Although they tend to her constantly, Míriel’s fëa passes into the Halls of Awaiting shortly after Námo’s encounter with Fëanor. There, her troubled soul finally finds rest. Míriel is free to go wherever she wants, except the deepest vault where once Melkor was chained.

The Halls of Awaiting is a giant maze, with many levels hewn into the earth. The vaults where Melkor was once locked in darkness mark the end of them. There are common rooms for the souls – once they arrive, separate cells for those requesting and requiring solitude, and rooms for the Maiar assigned to Námo.

Although these Maiar are free to leave whenever they wish, as for many years the halls will remain almost empty, most prefer to stay. They spend their time in the fenced gardens, sitting under the weeping willows. Often, Nienna is seen in their presence, teaching them how to ease the pain of grief.

The arrival of Míriel’s soul is a welcomed diversion. The Maiar take immediate interest to her suffering soul, tending to her every need. Whether out of boredom or simple curiosity is hard to tell, and Námo decides it is not his place to judge as long as her pain is eased.

Whilst his Maiar swarm around Míriel’s soul like a flock of birds, Miriel prefers the company of Vairë. The Valie rarely enters the Realm of the Dead, preferring to remain in her own halls near-by where she weaves the fortunes of the world in a giant tapestry. When she does, with her laughter bright and cheerful, it is as if the sound of Valmar’s bells have found its way into the gloomy twilight.

Námo often thinks of Fëanor and their encounter when he is alone.

* * *

The boy Námo once saw in the Gardens of Lórien has long grown into adulthood, or so the Maiar keep telling Míriel.

“He’s beautiful,” they say. “More beautiful than anything.”

“More beautiful than Finwë?” Míriel wonders.

“Oh yes,” they tell her.

Námo keeps his amusement to himself.

Even as a child, Fëanor was more beautiful than Finwë.

What they also say is that Fëanor is skilled, both with blade and mouth, gifted with cunning and creativity never seen before. Apparently, he’s been establishing a forge with an adjusted workshop in Tirion, catering for the lords’ and ladies’ hunger for beautiful things. The jewelry Fëanor creates is supposed to be of a beauty unbeknown – pendants of sapphire, shaped like tears; earrings and necklaces, adorned with finest rubies and emeralds. Of late Námo notes an increase of absence among his Maiar, correlating to the amount of jewelry being worn by them.

Námo debates long with himself whether he should pay Tirion a visit in disguise to lay his eyes upon Fëanor once more, but in the end, he always dismisses the idea as selfish foolishness. The life of the living isn’t his to live, nor are dreams his domain. And yet, dreams encircle him, visions that he is unsure that he wants.

*

The feast of Gods and Elves in Valmar to celebrate the coming of the Eldar into Valinor is Námo’s perfect excuse to give in to his desire to lay his eyes upon Fëanor himself.

Námo has never attended the glorious celebrations before, for he thinks that even among the immortals his presence would be unwelcome. Some chance encounters in the Gardens of Lórien with the Eldar have told him as much. Most Elves had blanched upon realizing with whom they are speaking, excusing themselves a moment later with spurious reasons.

For once, he does not care, certain that his attendance will hardly be noticed. Word of Fëanor’s most recent creations, three jewels, whose beauty surpasses everything else ever known or created has traveled far and wide. Doubtlessly, Fëanor will be the center of attention.

Námo is not mistaken. That night, Fëanor outshines even the brightest stars.

None of his Maiar’s praises of his beauty has prepared Námo for what he sees. Fëanor is dressed in robes of red silk with elaborate patterns of black and silver threads befitting his status as Noldorin prince, with jewels shining on his fingers, wrists and hair. A hairband wrought of finest silver stretches across the back of his head. It’s adorned with several eight-pointed stars, diamonds and rubies set in the center of each one. That creation alone is breathtaking in its very own way, yet the jewels outshine it all. Fëanor wears them high upon his brow, each stone set in an invisible fastening, their light reflecting in Fëanor’s eyes.

The Silmarils, as the jewels are called, are the most beautiful creations Námo has ever seen, save Fëanor himself.

Fëanor’s well aware of both. He’s not dancing yet it appears he is in all his haughtiness, filled both with arrogance and pride. Then he’s flitting like a butterfly from one guest to another, holding short conversations with everyone he meets, laughing and teasing, dangerously close to flirtation. All who lay their eyes upon his creations are filled with wonder, especially after Varda hallows the Silmarils as never before anything alike has happened.

Námo is drawn to him like the moth towards the flame, yet he prefers to keep to himself, avoiding the buzzing vibrancy of the crowd. Among the crowd, he spots his brother, a few of his own Maiar, who have certainly come on Míriel’s behalf, and Manwë himself. Blue silk flows about the Elder King’s fána, and a smile graces his face when he approaches Fëanor, who is smiling back.

They stand close to each other, and although Námo doesn’t hear Fëanor’s laughter, he sees it on his mouth and lips. Envy fills him, sick and wretched, as he wishes it could be him standing with Fëanor like this. Despite better knowledge, Námo keeps his eyes fixed on them until Fëanor flits away again.

Námo feels Manwë’s presence even before he sees him. Although the feeling of envy has slowly ebbed, he does not welcome the disturbance as it means he must withdraw his attention from Fëanor.

“I am pleased to see you here,” Manwë says.

_I am not._

Námo doesn’t say it, opting for diversion instead. “The fates of Arda, earth, sea, and air are locked inside Fëanáro’s creations,” Námo says without greeting or otherwise acknowledging the Elder King’s presence. “And his heart is tightly bound to these stones. There’ll be great suffering if they were ever to be destroyed.”

Manwë’s gaze is piercing. “Have visions shown you this?”

Námo shakes his head. “No. Simple observance of Fëanáro tonight is enough.”

Manwë nods. “You may not be mistaken. It is said that Fëanáro grows quite possessive over the things he admires and loves.”

_Not unlike myself._

Much later, when laughter and merriment slowly begin to fade, Námo sees Fëanor standing by one of the gentle streams flowing from the far mountains, near the mighty arch which opens in the walls of Valmar northwards towards the Trees. This time, he is alone. A strange melancholy wafts around him as if he’s overwhelmed by all the attention he has received.

To see Fëanor in this almost vulnerable state is strange, Námo thinks, a sudden protectiveness arising, of the sort he knows is inherently wrong. But the thought alone is spellbinding, drawing him in and turning him inside out with – what is what he feels, how is it even named?

Desire?

Want?

Lust?

The language of the Gods lacks all three.

“Brother!” Irmo greets Námo with a raised cup, and Námo finds himself nodding in acknowledgment. “I was surprised to sense your presence tonight, but to see you so, visible for everyone to see is, if you will allow me the notion, a rather odd occurrence.”

Námo raises an eyebrow, still looking into Fëanor’s direction but even then, he can see Irmo’s green eyes and the questions in them. “I am listening.”

“Are you?” Irmo inquires, following Námo’s gaze towards Fëanor.

“What do you want?” Námo asks very quietly, jaw set.

“Well,” Irmo says, bringing the cup to his lips. “I had wondered why you have graced us with your presence tonight, but then I saw you standing here.”

Irmo drinks, then states, “You are obsessed.”

Námo would never lie to his own brother. And it’s pointless anyway.

“It is true,” he admits, turning around to face Irmo. “I can’t get him out of my mind.”

Irmo shrugs, then reminds him, “The living aren’t your affair.”

Námo holds his brother’s unblinking stare. “And yet he lives.”

“And?” Irmo takes a step closer, lowering his voice significantly. “There’s a darkness in his eyes, so you have said yourself, and tonight, whilst he spoke Manwë, I have sensed it, too.”

“What are you implying?” Námo catches his brother by the collar. “Speak your mind.”

Irmo doesn’t bother to struggle free. “Unrest shall grow among the Noldor, for a reason my vision has not shown me yet. There will be many bitter partings. There will be death.” Irmo falls silent as if to reconsider his words, and Námo watches him through narrowed eyes. “Wasn’t it you who told me that those who eat or drink anything from the Realm of Death shall be bound to it forever?”

Fruit grow in the fenced yard of the Halls of Awaiting, lemons and oranges, apples and pomegranates. “So, the legend says, yes.”

When next Námo looks, Fëanor is gone.

* * *

Irmo’s vision ought to be true.

Unrest grows amongst the Noldor, so Námo hears from his Maiar who occasionally wander Tirion’s streets on his behalf. What is also said is that Fëanor’s pride and hubris grows with every year.

The words they repeat to him whilst he sat his onyx throne are filled with anger, speaking of deceit, of selfishness, and cunning.

Although Námo is tempted to investigate the matter himself, a strange foreboding filling his heart, he refrains.

 _T_ _he living aren’t your affair._

For once he acts accordingly, nevertheless sometimes allowing his mind pointless musings about Fëanor.

*

It’s many years before Námo sees Fëanor with his own eyes again.

Long debates among the Gods have been held before Fëanor is summoned to the gates of Valmar to answer for his crimes.

Everything Námo has been told about Fëanor is true. Fëanor strides into the Ring of Doom, wearing confidence as if it is armor. His shoulders are squared and his head is raised in defiance. The black cloak he wears is held together by gold and jewels in the shape of two serpents forming a clasp with their open mouths.

“You have come here to answer for your crimes, Fëanáro,” Manwë says, bidding Fëanor to come closer with a gesture of his hand.

And so Fëanor does, giving each of the Gods a glare in passing. The days in which he used to smile at them forgotten.

The bow Fëanor gives Manwë is one of mockery. “If it is a crime to defend what rightfully is mine, so be it.”

Námo hasn’t heard Fëanor speak since the day in Irmo’s gardens.

Manwë looks abashed. “You will answer everything that Námo asks of you, and truthful shall your answers be.”

“Say those who weave lies day and night,” Fëanor snarls, turning around. “But worry not, I shall.” Then, he strides forward towards where Námo sits, his boots clicking loudly on the stone.

“Spare yourself the courtesy,” Námo says, rising before Fëanor attempts to bow.

Námo is neither nervous nor intimidated by Fëanor standing right before him and yet he’s swayed by the unsettling fire in his eyes. Never before has he been so close to the one he’s spent so many hours thinking of, close enough to perceive his warmth, even through the fabric of his clothes.

Fëanor keeps true to his word. He glares, and snarls, and rages, but he answers everything that is asked of him eloquently until Melkor’s ugly lies are laid bare.

Although Melkor has whispered lies into Fëanor’s ears, Fëanor isn’t judged guiltless. He had threatened and attacked his own brother, thereby poisoning the peace in Aman.

Fëanor keeps his silence, brooding.

Námo watches and watches until the tension is ready to break.

Loathing shines from Fëanor’s eyes before he raises his voice. “We have not come to these lands as your sullen slaves, thralls to your lust or envy!” he snarls, his teeth exposed for a moment. “To be robbed of lands which were ours! To be robbed of what we love and cherish; what we have created with our own hands!”

“You have spoken of thralldom; if it is, you cannot escape it,” Námo says, watching Fëanor’s face to see if he’ll flinch. He has almost expected him to but Fëanor stands his ground. There’s nothing. “Twelve years you shall spend in exile, far away from Tirion wherever that may be. And there you shall take counsel with yourself and repent your crime; of drawing your sword upon your own kinsman. After the years have passed you may return and the matter shall be set in peace, if others will release you.”

At last, Fëanor’s stoic calm dissipates and Námo observes the first hints of unbidden emotions.

Shadows of rage are overtaking him. Námo sees them pulling at his edges, sees the tiny twitch of Fëanor’s bottom lip until cold flames burn in his eyes. Even then, in all his fury he’s beautiful in his very own way.

“So that the usurper shall take my place at my father’s table?” Fëanor spits, disregarding the command to be silent. “And whisper lies into his ear?”

At last Tulkas stops Fëanor’s rant. “Enough! We all have heard enough of your poisoned tongue.”

All eyes are fixed on Fëanor, but it is Fingolfin who speaks. “I will release my brother.”

The Gods look at each other, then back at Fëanor who keeps his silence. Without gracing them with an answer, he turns around and leaves. 

*

As odd as it seems to him, Námo’s initial attraction to Fëanor does not diminish.

He isn’t surprised when he learns that Finwë and all of Fëanor’s sons go with him into exile, followed by many loyal followers. That his wife, however, has not followed him is surprising. Although Námo isn’t overly familiar with the strange ways of love amongst the Eldar, he knows that seven sons don’t just hatch from eggs.

Equally unexpected is the location of Fëanor’s new dwelling. In all irony, Fëanor has chosen land close to the Halls of Awaiting to build his Northern Fortress.

*


	2. The Secret of the Woods

*

The woods surrounding Formenos are as old as the world itself.

Before the forest lays an open plain with fresh green turf, a place which has no shade. Where turf meets the forests, virgin laurel trees and birches grow, whilst it’s mostly hazels and oaks further inside. The trees are rooted deep into the earth, yet whenever Yavanna sits down to pluck the lyre, they would dance for her.

Námo has always liked the forest.

The ivy-covered elm trees and the twilight remind him of his own halls. He often goes there, preferring the gloominess of the place over his brother’s well-tended gardens. But then, the Gardens of Lorien serve an entirely different purpose, a sanctuary for those to be healed from the atrocities yet to come.

It’s strange not to have the forest to himself anymore.

Námo senses the presence of Fëanor and his sons from time to time, but never reveals himself. In his halls he takes silent council, contemplating his choices. Ignoring Fëanor for twelve years will be hard, and as Námo thinks about it, he knows he’ll fail.

In the end, Námo’s strange obsession with Fëanor wins. Their first encounter is one of chance again – or so at least he lets Fëanor believe.

The next time he is in the forest, he acts when he perceives Fëanor’s presence. Námo changes his fána to one of the Eldar before Fëanor is close enough to see him. Tall and lithe, with long silver hair and blue eyes.

In contrast to his usual form, he feels humble, and strangely out of place in his new body, as if his fëa doesn’t match his physical form. Perhaps, that’s true, but it’s too late to change it now. Fëanor stands at the far side of the clearing.

Fëanor narrows his eyes, regarding Námo across the distance. “Who are you?”

“Well met, stranger,” Námo answers dryly upon the lack of courtesy. “My name is Aláriel. Care to give me yours?” (*)

Friend of fortune. Námo cringes. But it’s the best name he could come up with in a hurry. Foolishly, he had never given the matter a thought before.

Apparently, Fëanor takes Námo’s feigned unawareness of who he is as an insult to his pride. “Fëanáro, first son of Finwë,” he introduces himself, crossing his arms over his chest. Then, he looks Námo up and down. “I have never seen you here before.”

“Nor have I seen you,” Námo tells Fëanor, forcing himself to remain calm. Hubris does not sit well with Námo, but for the sake of not ruining his plan before it has begun he swallows down his initial anger.

“Does my presence in these woods bother you?” he ventures.

Fëanor’s reaction is indecisive. “No.”

Not a lie, but not the exact truth, either. Fëanor appears not quite bothered, but at least startled.

Námo senses uncertainty beneath the posture of defense, in a way that’s quite unusual for Fëanor and Námo wonders why.

“Good,” Námo says, forcing himself to smile. “I don’t wish to disturb your wanderings.”

“You don’t,” Fëanor tells him, eyes meeting Námo’s own as if he tries to decipher something on Námo’s face. “I am simply surprised. My sons and I often venture into the forests and never met a single soul.”

“Neither have I,” Námo says. It’s true. The forest is deserted.

“Coincidence, then?” Fëanor says with a laugh that sounds fake to Námo’s ears.

Námo observes Fëanor closely. “I don’t believe in coincidences,” he says, more sharply than he intends to.

Fëanor doesn’t flinch but takes a few steps towards him. “Neither do I,” he states, arms crossed. It’s stunning to observe how much Fëanor has internalized suspicion; it hadn’t always been like that.

Silence falls, mostly for Námo doesn’t know what to say. From the way Fëanor regards him it’s obvious he’s expecting a continuation of the conversation. “If you don’t think it’s coincidence, what else do you think it is then?”

Fëanor’s eyes narrow, still suspicious. “Not the will of the Valar. I am exiled by their command.”

This is difficult. Námo settles for a shrug. Oddly, this is well-received.

Fëanor takes another step towards Námo, smiling now. “Shall we say, most fortunate perhaps?”

 _Fool_ , Námo thinks to himself. Instead of dreaming the hours away, fantasizing of pressing his face into Fëanor’s hair he should have practiced conversations.

Fëanor gives Námo a long stare, tilting his head to the side, expecting an answer.

Námo clears his throat. “So it would seem,” he says, surprised how his voice falters in Fëanor’s presence.

The last time Fëanor had stood before him, Námo had found it easier to ignore his charms. But then, Fëanor had regarded him with malice, his fair features shadowed by anger, fraying it into a grimace. Now his expression is no more than neutral. 

“My sons await my return,” Fëanor says.

 _A lie._ Fëanor’s sons are in Formenos.

Námo won’t call Fëanor out on it. Instead, he inclines his head, quite formally.

“Do you think, we shall meet again?” Fëanor asks, curious and for the first time, Námo sees Fëanor’s suspicion vanish for the blink of an eye.

“If coincidence is kind …,” Námo says.

The smile Fëanor gives Námo is radiant, utterly disarming. “Although I do not believe in coincidences this one time I will. Good-bye.”

“Farewell, Fëanáro.”

Námo watches Fëanor disappear in the dense trees, and only when he’s truly certain he’s gone, he sits down on one of the great stones, trying to calm his nerves. He’s still ensnared by Fëanáro’s eloquence, haunted by the smile he sees whenever he closes his eyes.

His fána still feels strange. Perhaps, it’s only a matter of growing accustomed to it. Námo hopes it is, blaming his nervousness on the strange body. He remains in the forest for several days, running, bathing, doing everything he has heard the Eldar doing, and indeed he feels more comfortable each day.

He spends much time thinking about Fëanor – and the Eldar in general. Their way of living, the differences between Gods and them.

The skin of the Eldar is supposed to be warm – not that Námo knows it’s true, yet his hands remain icily cold, even if he holds them right across the fire.

What is also said is that love between them can grow so strong that grief for a loved one might result in death. It’s the scenario Námo dreads the most for the souls yet to arrive to his halls.

* * *

The next few times they meet, it’s hardly by chance.

By now, Námo is well aware of Fëanor’s hunting schedule. He knows when his sons accompany him and when not, and of late, Fëanor rides out alone far more often than he used to, Námo notices with certain delight.

He has no part in his affairs,

and yet he wishes he has.

For many encounters, Fëanor’s internalized suspicion prevails.

It’s hard to break through the armor of defensiveness that Fëanor has forged around him to protect himself from disappointment. Several days and many conversations are needed until for the first time Fëanor truly seems at ease with Námo. Despite his father’s love, and the company of his sons and followers, Námo can see how lonely Fëanor feels in Formenos, afraid that once he’ll return to Tirion everybody has forgotten that he’s the rightful heir. Even separated, his loathing for Fingolfin remains.

After that, conversation flows much easier between them. Námo is enthralled to watch how Fëanor’s smile broadens each time they meet; how his posture becomes far more casual, as if he has discarded the protective shell. What mesmerizes Námo most, however, is how freely Fëanor begins to share most private details once suspicion has completely vanished. He’s far more lonely than Námo had thought he is – for far longer, and one night, right during the mingling of the Two Trees, Fëanor confesses that their clandestine meetings help to ease his loneliness, accompanied with such a radiant smile that Námo is rendered speechless.

He’s flattered by it for days.

* * *

It’s the tenth meeting when Námo is certain enough that his fair form has found its way into Fëanor’s thoughts the way he had desired all the while.

Nearby the place where they’ve first met, a stream meanders through the forest, its bank shaded by weeping willows, with boxwood and watery lotus growing below their hanging branches. Natural pools are fed by the river that circles the Halls of Awaiting nine times, before it disappears in the forest. The pools are deep enough to sit down in, rocks serving as natural benches.

That is where Námo awaits Fëanor, disguised as Aláriel, actively defying the rules of Manwë himself.

He lights a fire from dead trees at the riverbank, then steps into the natural pool and waits.

Light falls through the rustling leaves above, and in the calm surface of the water, Námo sees Aláriel for the first time. The light makes his silver hair glow like Telperion’s rays, makes his eyes sparkle. Although he had never aimed at beauty in creating the fána for this occasion, his subconscious certainly had. Námo’s beauty, although completely different, easily matches Fëanor’s own.

 _An infuriation like darkness, like light,_ Námo thinks, shuddering from the images of twined bodies his mind paints.

Shortly after, he feels Fëanor’s presence drawing closer. He feels him standing there, but this time he feels Fëanor’s gaze burning upon his naked skin.

He wouldn’t know if it’s always like this when Eldar regard each other, or if it derives from the intensity Fëanor watches him. Either way, Námo feigns ignorance, pretending to be alone. He lets his fingers ghost across the surface, watching how the water forms droplets upon his skin.

Fëanor takes his time before he announces himself, clearing his throat.

Námo tilts his head, pretending to be surprised. “My apologies, I did not hear you coming,” he says, giving Fëanor a knowing smile. Yes, he has been practicing how to use this fána.

“No need to apologize,” Fëanor says, stepping forward.

Námo doesn’t speak because it’s the best way to make proud men like Fëanor talk.

“You’ve not come here by chance,” Fëanor states, his voice soft and melodious. “Not like this at least.”

Fëanor’s assumption is correct. “Neither have you.”

Fëanor shakes his head. “I’ve had dreams…”

Námo keeps silent on the matter.

It’s hardly fair that Irmo has been granting Fëanor ambiguous dreams – for Námo is almost certain that it is these kind of dreams. But then, there’s no law that gods must be fair.

Nevertheless, he wonders, if Irmo senses what he’s doing. As a matter of fact, he should not. Námo has woven a spell around his soul since the day he allowed his plan to come to life. His presence can’t be located by anyone, nor can ósanwe be used. But then, they are brothers – perhaps, the spell is too weak.

_Be that as it may._

It is too late to be altered.

“Dreams?” Námo inquires, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Dreams, fantasies, name it as you wish,” Fëanor says, beginning to strip out of his clothes. Námo is shocked by Fëanor’s brazenness. “Words are nothing more than smoke and mirrors.”

He discards his boots and tunic first, with a confidence that renders Námo breathless. He doesn’t quite know where to look first; upon Fëanor’s arms, hardened from endless hours in the forge, or his muscled abdomen. Námo has not yet decided as Fëanor steps out of his breeches.

_Damn._

Fëanor looks like a god; like one of the marble statues lining Tirion’s alleys, entirely unashamed by his nudity.

Námo is watching Fëanor, and Fëanor watches him in return.

Longing, desire, lust, it’s all there in the way Fëanor holds himself. And in Fëanor’s eyes Námo sees his own matching emotions. They’re drawn towards each other, as if it’s meant to be like this.

“You like what you see,” Fëanor states, taking a step towards the edge of the pool.

“So do you,” Námo says, holding his unblinking stare. He’s swimming towards the edge, realizing how fast his heart beats. Even that, what actually is quite nothing, is surpassing Námo’s wildest dreams. And just in the moment as Námo pushes himself out of the water with his arms, Fëanor bends down, so that they are meeting in the middle.

“Oh.” Their lips are almost touching

Námo is not saying anything at all.

Fëanor’s fingertips runs down Námo’s chest and upon the gentle touch Námo shivers, for the first time in his life.

“Mind to get out of the water?” Fëanor asks, and the way he does, goes straight to Námo’s guts.

“I,” Námo says, certain he sounds like a complete fool. Fëanor doesn’t laugh, holding out his arm to Námo. After a moment of hesitation, Námo takes it.

“You are cold,” Fëanor remarks, but otherwise doesn’t linger on the topic for which Námo is grateful.

The rumors about Elvish skin are true; Fëanor’s skin is hot like burning flames. Námo has never perceived anything remotely similar, apart that day in the Ring of Doom when Fëanor had stood before him. But then – he’s never been touched by one of the Eldar before; was never meant to.

And yet.

Instead of stepping back, Námo takes a step forward, uncertain. “What do you want?” The question is meaningless, but speaking it gives Námo time.

Fëanor smooths his hands over Námo’s shoulder. “Whatever you are willing to give,” he whispers, leaning in so close that their bodies are almost touching. “I am quite hopeful that what you are willing to give matches with what I want.” 

It’s most fortunate that leadership comes naturally to Fëanor – in every way. There’s no nervous trepidation in his eyes; no hesitation when his hands reach out to Námo’s own.

His breath hitches as Fëanor takes hold of them and brings them to his lips, pressing a kiss to the insides of his wrists, before he twines their fingers.

Námo had never assumed Fëanor to be patient at all, in a situation like this, even less. Yet Fëanor is, almost as if he’s contemplating the possibility of real courtship.

“You know, you can touch me,” Fëanor says, his voice dropping even further as he adds. “Where-ever you desire.”

And as to prove a point, Fëanor lets go of their twined fingers, bringing Námo’s hand towards his face.

It’s beautiful; it’s enchanting, and even as he stands like this before Fëanor, he knows he has lost a part of his soul to him.

“If you desire it,” Námo replies, beginning to brush his fingers over Fëanor’s brows, his cheekbones, the ridge of his nose, delighting in the way Fëanor’s skin feels against his fingers.

Fëanor closes his eyes, humming.

“Fëanáro?” Námo asks, not knowing if this is meant to be like this.

“Just … go on,” Fëanor breathes.

And so he does, soft and chaste at first, but Fëanor’s reactions, the small hitch of breath and his shudders, encourage him to move on. Námo smiles, feeling the warmth of Fëanor’s skin spread across his own, and Fëanor smiles back.

Kindness shines in Fëanor’s eyes when he opens them again, as bright as any light Námo has ever seen. The closeness assaults senses Námo never knew he possessed. The warmth skin could radiate; the smell of grass, sweet, and pure, and fresh; the smell of wet earth, of Fëanor’s naked skin. It’s never been there before and when Fëanor kisses his lips tentatively, for the first time in his life Námo tastes a quite specific taste.

He’s wondering if Fëanor feels any changes in return from who he truly is. If so, he doesn’t let shine it through.

“Aláriel,” Fëanor whispers, tracing a finger lightly over Námo’s eyebrows.

The sensation sends a shiver down Námo’s spine, suddenly very aware of the fact how his body reacts to Fëanor’s touch. Despite its gentleness it is enough to feel himself growing painfully hard. He’s ashamed, and then he’s not, finding himself staring right into Fëanor’s eyes.

Fëanor looks smug, quite pleased. “I thought it’ll never happen.”

Námo is at a loss of what to say, then realizes the moment Fëanor raises his hands to either side of his face, that no words can ever be as telling as Fëanor’s smile the moment before he seals their lips.

It is disarming, speaking of silent promises; of many hours yet to come. Námo had memorized Fëanor’s face long ago, his sharp profile with those high cheekbones but, in the indulgence of passion he’s transformed. He glows, and radiates in a way Námo’s certain none of the Eldar ever could.

The way Fëanor brushes his lips against his is soft and sweet, and it makes Námo’s heart ache. Warm hands run over the curves of his body, and he feels himself stiffen at the soft touch, feels Fëanor’s heat against him and above him, and then he feels Fëanor’s lips upon his own.

Everything is spinning; Námo fails to tell where he ends and Fëanor’s body begins; it’s a mess, a churning frenzy of lips moving against each other and gasping noises. In a surge of recklessness, Námo brings his arms around Fëanor’s waist, pressing him close against him.

Even with eyes tightly shut, Fëanor’s brilliance pierces his vision. Námo’s breath is already coming ragged and for the first time in all his life he feels strange heat surging in his veins.

Their lips glide against each other like it is meant to be, only parting for breath. There’s nothing chaste and soft anymore in the way they kiss, and it’s so obvious that Fëanor has done this a thousand times before. And although for a split second jealousy sparks in Námo’s heart, he knows he should be grateful for it. Fëanor moves his hand to Námo’s jaw, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, whilst his other hands are moving all over Námo’s back.

It’s Fëanor, and only him in Námo’s mind; his lips, his touches, and his very thoughts – as if it’s meant to be like this; as if they are made for each other. Everything else is drowned out into non-existence – the gushing of the stream, the chirping birds, which Námo has cursed before as Manwë’s spies. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Action provokes reaction, or so at least it’s said – and Námo can’t deny the truth to it; he’s bringing his own hands to the back of Fëanor’s head, drawing him in, pulling him close, and against his lips Fëanor whines.

“Gods, yes, Aláriel,” Fëanor moans, and for the first time of many, Námo wishes it would be his true name Fëanor moans.

They stare at each other in awe, lips wet and bruised, and red, only to kiss again. Fëanor’s finger tangle in his hair and he tugs Námo’s head back till he feels Fëanor’s mouth on his throat, kissing and licking.

The sound of a blowing horn makes Fëanor jump out of the embrace.

“Fuck!” he swears under his breath, quite dissatisfied with the situation. “Damn you, Tyelkormo.”

Námo’s mind snaps back into present, suddenly very aware of souls drawing constantly closer, mimicking Fëanor’s attempts to get quickly dressed.

“My sons,” Fëanor explains, both apologetic and upset. “I … I need to leave.”

“I understand.”

He doesn’t, at least not in the way Fëanor thinks he does.

Fëanor grabs Námo by the collar of his shirt, drawing him in for a hasty press of lips. “Until we meet again.”

Námo sits still for a while after Fëanor has left, trying to make sense of what just happened. The answer won’t come to him. There are no words in the language of the Ainur or the Eldar to even remotely describe how he feels.

Perhaps, he assumes, time will quench the strange feeling in his guts, sparkling like summer wine. The assumption is foolish – it persists for days. Each time, he thinks it’s subsided a new wave of heat surges through his veins whenever he thinks of Fëanor kissing him; and in the wake of it his body reacts. 

It’s frustrating.

His hair, his skin, it all seems to smell like Fëanor, and when his hands run down his arms he imagines them to be Fëanor’s, to which his body reacts. Alone in the forest, Námo begins the experiment with his fána, pretending it’s Fëanor’s hands dipping down between his legs. He’s weary, over-stimulated, and yet excitement soars. He allows his hands to tease, brushing his fingers lightly over his hardened cock, wondering how Fëanor’s roughened hands would feel.

As a result, his entire body shakes and trembles, sparks of light dancing behind his closed eyes; it’s madness, it’s maddening, but most of all, it appears to be wrong.

Námo stops.

Doing it himself, even if it’s to thoughts of Fëanor, doesn’t feel right.

*

For the first time in his life, Námo feels lonely in his halls. He perceives the darkness like choking hands wrapped around his throat, missing the brightness that comes to his life with Fëanor’s laughter.

The Land of Shadows isn’t for the living, Námo tells himself that, every night; and yet, each night he reaches down between his legs, daring to imagine that Fëanor would find his way permanently into his hall.

_He’s alive._

_What if he wasn’t?_

_I won’t kill him._

_But it is in your power to alter the fortunes of the world; to bind him to the eternal twilight._

The thought itself is sick and twisted.

_It has to come to an end…_

Each night, Námo whispers that to himself.

_… before it is too late._

It is already too late.

He’s drawn to him, like two stars are drawn towards each other, and it is as if Fëanor feels exactly the same. Each night, the desire to kiss him again awakes, and each night, he forces his hands to stillness, as Fëanor should be the first.

Námo knows, in the back of his mind, that he would never be able to deny Fëanor – in anything.

*..*

It’s not long until they meet again

\- and again,

\- and again.

And each time they do, Námo weaves a spell around them to shield them from prying eyes.

They revel in lingering touches, pressed against each other in embraces that could go on for hours. Albeit brief and fleeting, the touches are burnt into Námo’s skin and would accompany him whenever they are apart.

Being together with Fëanor is addictive.

“What are you doing?” Námo asks many clandestine meetings later. Fëanor is sitting behind him cross-legged, busying himself a little too long with Námo’s hair.

“Braiding your hair,” Fëanor states, but something in his voice tells Námo that there’s more to it.

Námo looks over his shoulder to Fëanor, eyebrow raised. “Braiding it?”

Fëanor doesn’t even bother to conceal the mischief. “Yes. In a specific way,” he says, letting go of Námo’s hair. Instead, he wraps his arms around Námo’s waist, head dropping to his shoulders. “Perhaps it’s not common among your people, but we use braids to express many things. Rank and status, emotions. Interest in love.”

Námo shivers, certain that Fëanor notices. “Are you courting me?”

It’s sensual in a way Námo can’t comprehend.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Fëanor whispers, then laughs. “Might be true that we’ve skipped a phase or two but that makes it true no less.”

Flattery comes natural to Fëanor, and no matter how often Námo hears it, he feels intrigued.

“Go on, then,” Námo chuckles, placing his hands over Fëanor’s.

“We court, and kiss,” Fëanor says, then suddenly slips out of Námo’s hold only to sit down in Námo’s lap. “We laugh and cherish. And in the end we fuck.”

Fëanor’s lips come to Námo’s throat, kissing, licking, sucking. “Right now, you’re not doing either of it,” Námo stutters. Fëanor’s undivided attention is driving him insane.

“No,” Fëanor says against Námo’s ear, breath leaving a shiver in its wake. “What I do is marking you. The prelude to everything else. You wouldn’t mind…”

Fëanor has always been very vocal about what he likes – and what he’s not saying, it’s easy to guess.

Námo is too startled to say anything at all, losing himself in the cadence of Fëanor’s voice, in the way he pushes him back against the ground and pins him. He stares up, seeing Fëanor’s throat working, the desire in his eyes.

Before Fëanor, Námo has never even considered kissing anyone. And now he lifts his head to meet Fëanor’s lips, filthy images of what is to come flashing in his mind. Fëanor watches with unquestionable attraction until their lips touch.

Fëanor splays his body across Námo, grinding his hips and kissing him harder, deeper than before. Námo feels as if he can’t breathe, can’t think, can only exist, moaning and writhing in such a shameless way – and it’s obvious how much delight Fëanor takes in it. Fëanor reaches down between them, a devious edge to his smile.

Being aroused like this is completely new to Námo as never before have they allowed each other to go so far.

“Fëanáro, please,” Námo swears under his breath, begs for something he doesn’t even know what it is.

When he closes his eyes he still sees Fëanor’s face; still feels his heat, which seems to consume him, the fire in his eyes that that makes him almost lose it, whilst Fëanor grinds his hips and fists his cock. Over his attempts to control his breathing, he can hear Fëanor’s gasps and moans, which make it almost unbearable to restrain himself, to keep his fána from dissolving into nothing as his entire body begins to jerk. He digs his fingers into Fëanor’s hips, hard enough to have Fëanor cry out, swearing and cursing against his lips.

His climax is like a stab to his heart, like Fëanor reaching inside and pulling his soul away, and he struggles against his soaring powers, coming all over Fëanor’s hand and his own stomach.

*

Even when he returns to his halls, Fëanor’s braids of courtship still adorn his hair.

Being with Fëanor is nothing like Námo had dreamt it to be.

– but then how should he have any expectations at all. Clandestine meetings on the riverbank are hardly counted among the tasks appointed to him. Every once in a while he wonders when he’ll be summoned to Taniquetil to receive the scolding for what he is doing. Meddling in the affair of the Eldar is strictly forbidden by decree, but then, would his behavior truly change the course of time, of events yet coming to pass?

_No._

The excuse to justify his behavior is a good one: Fëanor is nothing more than a fallen prince banned from court with too much time on his hands.

And yet, for the first time he truly understands the way Fëanor’s mind works – the hurt and grief Fëanor had felt all his life, the fear of being robbed of his heritage. Yet what he understands most is why so many follow him without question. 

The thoughts in Námo’s mind are repetitive, almost philosophical – there’s no true answer to them and yet he asks them all over again when he’s alone.

_Longing._

_Loathing._

_Enemy._

_Lover._

The words have long become a blur, beginning to erase one another.

A strange familiarity has grown between them over the course of time. When at first it was many weeks between their encounters it’s become a weekly habit now, in which Fëanor had even offered an invitation to Formenos.

Námo had graciously declined.

What they share isn’t meant to the confines of a fortress; isn’t meant for anyone to see or hear and in the end, Fëanor has seen the sense in that.

Mostly it’s the riverbanks and when rain falls down, it’s the cabin Oromë’s hunters built long ago. It’s warm and it’s cozy but Fëanor would not be Fëanor if some extravagances were not needed. Golden goblets have found their way into the cabin, so has a silken sheet, blood red with the eight pointed star stitched to it in threads of gold.

Námo knows he should put an immediate end to it, and yet whenever he’s not lying in Fëanor’s arms he craves his presence, and each time they meet again, they linger a little while longer, realizing how strongly attached they’ve grown to one another.

Where he had expected Fëanor to act upon his own desires, hot-headed and selfish, Fëanor never does. Each time, Fëanor’s patience surprises Námo anew. He’s demanding and proud, just as Námo had him expected to be and how he has come to love him, yet he’s so much more than that: he’d never thought Fëanor’s humor would be wonderfully dark and twisted, nor has he ever heard Fëanor laugh before. It’s addictive, just as everything else.

There’s a hundred smiles Fëanor can smile, and Námo’s selfish enough to assume a few are specifically for him.

The patterns of Námo’s thoughts regarding Fëanor become more complex with every day that passes, and where once obsession has reigned it’s exchanged by something else. Fëanor, however, is a different matter; each time they meet, Fëanor’s obsession seems to grow.

*

“Who are you?” One night Fëanor asks again, ivy leaves crowning his head as he lays on the silken blanket in the wooden cabin. His lips tremble before they part to welcome the grape between Námo’s fingertips. He can lose himself in the way Fëanor’s mouth linger on his fingers for a moment too long; can lose himself in the way Fëanor’s eyes are filled with mirth. The pomegranate seeds still sit in a golden bowl and as Námo’s gaze falls upon them, he feels remorse.

“What you are striving to know is wickedness.” The clouds have darkened the sky, and it’s stormy, the elements raging outside as if Manwë voices his disapproval. “Haven’t you guessed yet?”

“I might have,” says Fëanor. The last grape disappears in his mouth and Námo sees Fëanor’s throat working. Absently, Fëanor traces his fingers across Námo’s collarbone, before he rolls over, arms crossed on Námo’s chest. “There’s something that keeps me thinking…”

Námo holds Fëanor’s gaze. “Speak your mind.”

Fëanor remains entirely confident. “ _‘If thralldom it be, thou canst not escape it.’_ Perhaps you are familiar with the words of your superior; perhaps you are not – though I was unaware that any of you would indulge in such kinds of thralldom.” 

_You’d be astonished if you knew where your own son rides out to, every fortnight._

Námo doesn’t say it. Instead, he leans in, licking along Fëanor’s lips, relishing in the way Fëanor parts his mouth for him. The bed creaks softly under their weight, old wood moaning after months of disuse.

“There are many forms of thralldom.” Námo’s surprised by his own answer.

Fëanor quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “Is that so?” he whispers, pressing his naked body against Námo.

It’s strange how easily he has adjusted to Fëanor’s ways of flirtation.

“Yes,” he breathes, closing his eyes to Fëanor’s touch of fingers and lips. The pomegranate is long forgotten, as if everything else _._

Fëanor twines their fingers. “So I shall lead,”

“and I will follow,” Námo says, squeezing Fëanor’s hand in return.

For anyone else, the nonchalance of Námo answer might provoke irritation, not so to Fëanor, being used to acceptance all his life.

“This is a trap, isn’t it?” Fëanor whispers against Námo’s lips.

Once, it certainly had been – then, so long ago. The line has long become a hazy blur. He doesn’t answer him, not knowing what he should say.

Perhaps, Námo expects Fëanor to be furious and insulted, his pride wounded but Fëanor is none of it. If he is he decides to ignore it.

Instead, he’s pressing his body forward in a way that Námo thinks that if they were still standing Fëanor would walk him against the wall. It almost feels like it, even if they are on the bed already.

Námo lets out a ragged breath and swallows as Fëanor reaches down between them. He’s about to say something, but no words do come to him about how this is meant to go but he doesn’t voice it. He’d agreed to be led, and even if he hadn’t, he doesn’t even know what to do.

“You’ve never done it,” Fëanor says, slowly stroking him to hardness. “You’ve never done anything like it before.”

The thrill in Fëanor’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “No,” Námo confirms, smiling. “Does it excite you?”

Fëanor is brutally honest, always. “Yes.”

Námo is on the edge; has been there since Fëanor has started tonight kissing him in a way he has never been before. Moments become a blurred fantasy of black and silver, and the orange glow of the fire; of twined fingers and lips hot against each other.

Fëanor positions himself between Námo’s parted legs, nudging them even further apart. Námo knows what is coming but nothing has ever prepared him for the moment Fëanor’s oiled finger begins to prepare him, twisting and curling.

He’s swearing, in a way he has never before – but then, he’s never been touched like this. Each kiss, each touch gets him trembling a little more. When Fëanor adds a second finger into him, slick and sure, Námo swears and curses, feeling how his body resists.

A shiver crawls down Námo’s spine. “Fëanáro … _please_.”

He whimpers as Fëanor withdraws his hand entirely, leaving him feeling so incredibly vulnerable; yet he whimpers more as Fëanor positions his body and begins to push in.

“Fuck. By Vána’s tits!” Fëanor curses. Under normal circumstances Námo would be repulsed by such foul language; now it only brings forth an amused smile – by Vána’s tits has quite the ring to it and he wonders what else the Eldar say.

Fëanor can probably hear the stream of amusement in Námo’s thoughts – sees it certainly on his face.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” Námo answers, pulling Fëanor close, urging him to go on.

And so Fëanor does.

The grip of Fëanor’s hands is firm and demanding, holding him whenever he thinks it’s too much, catching him from falling by the way he kisses him until he’s buried deep inside.

Námo rakes his nails down Fëanor’s back, the sudden flare of pain almost too much to bear. Fëanor stills, then hesitates to move again, even as Námo urges him to.

“You’re doing so well,” Fëanor whispers in between kisses. “You’re doing so well for _me_.”

The filthy sort of praise rings like music in Námo’s ears. It sends forth another shiver, one he’s certain Fëanor notices – one of the sort which is quite flattering. It’s debauched, and it’s so incredibly filthy, and wanton desire is so evidently displayed on Fëanor’s face.

He’s thrashing underneath Fëanor, grabbing onto the sheets and trying to meet Fëanor’s thrusts. Námo is begging, wanting more and at the same time less. It’s the shattering of feeling of too much at once that robs him off his breath; the fulness of Fëanor’s cock inside of him; the rough grip of hands, yet lips kissing him so sensual like he’s never witnessed it before. 

Under Fëanor’s touch he burns; beneath his lips he quivers until he thinks he can’t keep his powers at bay any longer. The storm still rages outside, reflects in Fëanor’s eyes, in the way he moves, and roaring thunder drowns out the whines that easily turn into hoarse keening.

On the verge of orgasm the control over his powers is weak at best. Námo knows this. With the last remains of willpower he battles against the arising halo around his head; against parts of his soul escaping – he even succeeds, until Fëanor changes his rhythm once more, bringing Námo’s legs onto his shoulders.

Námo curses and splutters as Fëanor pushes in again, way deeper than ever before – once, twice, and all over again, and with every thrust Námo’s control wavers. He fists the sheets with his hands, and when that’s not sufficient anymore he claws at Fëanor’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise.

“You know,” Fëanor pants against Námo’s collarbone. “I could get used to the rougher side of you.”

At that, Námo reaches his climax. He gasps through it, thrashing underneath Fëanor, trying to meet Fëanor’s thrusts as control of anything slips from his hands. Fëanor doesn’t last much longer, either.

Shielded from everything, they lay in each other’s arms with the now stained blanket covering them, with Námo’s arm splayed across Fëanor’s chest and his head resting on Fëanor’s shoulder. He can feel Fëanor’s softened breathing in his hair, the susurrating murmurs that resemble a perfect lullaby.

“It is strange, you know,” Fëanor mumbles, kissing the top of Námo’s head. “Today, with you, I felt something I have never felt before. It’s hard to describe but I felt like… flying? Detached from this world, somehow? Free, and reckless.”

Námo knows exactly what Fëanor means. At the height of pleasure he hadn’t been able to control his powers anymore and had dragged Fëanor along. He doesn’t wish to elaborate on the matter. “Aren’t you always reckless?”

Fëanor smirks. “Only if you want me to.”

_I shouldn’t._

But even as he thinks it, and despite better knowledge for it is a dangerous endeavor, Námo knows he’ll lose. The smile Fëanor gives him before he reverses their position is disarming; the look as he crawls down his body an outright challenge.

When Fëanor is finished kissing Námo’s chest, he moves down, trailing kisses below his belly-button, and

“You can’t,” Námo sounds outrageous.

Fëanor looks startled. “Why not?”

Dark curls fall over Námo’s body as Fëanor moves further down, eyes dark and wild, outright ignoring whatever answer might give. Seeing Fëanor like this, between his splayed legs is the most beautiful image he has ever seen. 

Námo reaches out to brush his fingertips against Fëanor’s cheek, and Fëanor leans against it like a touch-starved cat.

“Allow me to change your mind,” Fëanor whispers, wrapping his lips around Námo’s thumb, sucking as if to offer glimpse into what it’ll feel like.

He can’t deny Fëanor anything, and Fëanor knows it well.

The flashing smile of silent triumph tells as much. Eyes glued to Námo’s face, Fëanor begins to lick along Námo’s cock before he seals his lips around him, hands pressed against Námo’s thigh. And then he moves his head, up and down, and up and down until a strangled moan falls from him lips. Námo’s quite certain he already looks wrecked by the bliss he feels, his mouth hanging open.

Fëanor looks quite pleased with the effect his performance has. He draws in a deep breath and bobs his head, going down further each time until Námo’s hips buck right into Fëanor’s face, a frantic apology following immediately after, drowned out by wet and sloppy sounds.

Feeling Fëanor’s mouth on him is counted among the things Námo had never fantasized about, for the simple reason he hadn’t known it existed; he wishes to let his head fall back, wishes to close his eyes to let desire wash over him but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when Fëanor looks at him from under his lashes; not when he looks like that, lips moist and rosy, wrapped around him. It’s the most erotic sight he’s ever seen – not that he’s seen much else.

“Fëanáro!” Námo cries out the moment Fëanor’s nose brushes against his skin.

His body spasms and jerks, hips bucking against Fëanor’s face and all he can do is to bite down on his lower lip not to cry out. Námo feels how he begins to lose control over his powers again; how as a result of it, bright golden light suddenly fills the cabin.

Fëanor stills his movements and looks up under wet lashes, both startled and amazed. “Let go,” he whispers. “Take me with you on your journey.”

_I should not._

And yet he can’t prevent it.

Námo’s fingers catch in Fëanor’s hair as Fëanor resumes his movements, harder and faster than before until Námo is moaning Fëanor’s name yet again. Fëanor coughs and splutters around him, being restrained by Námo’s hands in his hair, but he allows it, allows it until tears well in his eyes.

The sight of it – all of it – sends Námo over the edge.

He tries to give Fëanor the warning that is certainly due, tapping his fingertips frantically against Fëanor’s head. But Fëanor doesn’t listen – or outright ignores him, trying to swallow it all down. Simultaneously, parts of his soul leave his body and this time, he allows Fëanor to go with him beyond the confines of the world.

When the night finds its end in the early hours of the morning, Fëanor’s hair is disheveled just as Námo’s own. Their legs are tangled and Námo’s head is resting on Fëanor’s shoulder, whilst Fëanor plays with a strand of silver hair. They are both exhausted, covered in sweat, their lips bitten raw and bruised. The silence is comfortable, and only the crackling of the fire disrupts it. It’s pure bliss and utter agony, for Námo knows it’ll never last.

Their time is shadowed, like the corners of the cabin which the burning fire fails to penetrate and yet he deliberately ignores the voices in his head.

*

Though never fleeting, their dalliance abruptly ends the day when Fëanor is summoned by Manwë to the feast in the lofty halls of Taniquetil to reconcile with his brother.

And indeed Fëanor and Fingolfin reconcile before the throne of Manwë, in front the eyes of the Vanyar and the Noldor of Tirion, and for a while once more music and merriment reigns in the light of the mingling.

All song and laughter dies the moment darkness, wretched and terrible, spreads across the land.

*

**Back-Notes**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) [Aláriel, masc. name = "Eadwine", friend of fortune (but this name is elsewhere rendered into Quenya as Herendil, q.v.) (VT45:26)]
> 
> Inspiration for the flying fëa was found heavily inspired by the amazing Eönwë/Mairon fanfiction [Chasing Mirages by Russandol ](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=955) where I first have read about the concept and admittedly simply LOVED it <3 Well, I loved the entire story, it's so beyond wonderful and all I can ever do is to say: GO, and give it a read because it's perfect.


	3. Say Farewell to Bondage and Grief

*

Once more, Melkor’s malice veils the world in darkness.

Long ago, Námo spoke against Melkor’s release but Manwë’s heart was not swayed in that matter and Melkor was set free. Now, dismay and sadness reign in the Valar’s hearts after the loss of the Two Trees, and they meet often to discuss.

During one of these meetings Námo coughs, sudden pain soaring through his veins in a way he has never felt it before.

 _‘Is all well?’_ Irmo inquires in silence, worried.

 _‘There has been death,’_ Námo answers, arms crossed before his aching chest. _‘King Finwë was slain.’_

_‘Slain?’_

Never before blood has been spilled in Aman. _‘By Melkor’s foul hands.’_

_‘You must reveal what you know.’_

And so Námo does, at least to Manwë – for he’s responsible for everything that comes to pass. Together they decide that resurrecting the light of the Two Trees from Fëanor’s Silmarils is deemed more important than informing him about his father’s death.

Much later the Gods gather in the Ring of Doom to hold debate, all save Yavanna. Her lamentation in the Ezellohar is heart-breaking, a song of sadness the Blessed Lands have so far never known.

“The light of the Two Trees lives on in Fëanáro’s creation,” she says as she steps into the Ring of Doom. It is still night, but winds have blown away the vapors of death, revealing the stars in the sky. “With them I possibly can restore what Melkor’s malice has destroyed.”

Manwë rubs his chin. “We shall ask him.”

Tulkas inclines his head and rushes out into the night in search for Fëanor.

Námo feels conflicted.

Since being forced into exile, Fëanor harbors little love for the Gods – of that he had been clear enough whenever they had drunk and talked in the wooden cabin. Yet Námo remains silent on the matter, unwilling to reveal what treacherous words Fëanor had whispered to Aláriel.

Long before Fëanor steps into the Ring of Doom Námo perceives the vibrations of Fëanor’s thoughts – surprise and anger, unwillingness. It is as if he’s seeing right into his soul and Námo likes it not. Their clandestine dalliance has left its mark on him, in a way that should never have come to pass. He doesn’t know how or when it had happened; doesn’t know how deep their souls and fates are twined – not even if Fëanor equally perceives his thoughts.

Námo is desperately trying to shut down the mental link, at least temporarily.

The struggle doesn’t go unnoticed. Irmo’s raised eyebrow affirms as much. _‘What?’_

Námo looks at him, pleading. _‘Don’t ask.’_

He is in no mood to explain himself to Manwë, today less than usual.

Irmo nods, withdrawing his attention from him entirely.

And then Fëanor strides into the Ring of Doom, followed by Tulkas on his heels.

There’s no bow of courtesy, no politeness in the way Fëanor speaks. “You desire to speak to me?”

“Yes,” Manwë says, pointing towards the rotten trees. “The Trees are dead but not lost forever as Yavanna says, as the divine light lives on in your creations.”

Rage floods Fëanor’s eyes even before he has heard the request.

Yavanna steps forward, tears streaming down her face. “Before the roots of the Two Trees decay, I might have a chance to rekindle their life with the help of your creations,” she says softly, forcing herself to smile.

Fëanor remains silent.

Námo regards him, suddenly very aware that asking Fëanor is a hopeless cause. He is not even considering unlocking the jewels so dear to his heart.

Manwë seems oblivious. “Will you give Yavanna what she asks of you?”

“They are precious to me.” Fëanor’s face twists into an ugly grimace. “If they are broken, then broken will be my heart, and I shall die: first of all the Children of Eru.”

Only one thing is more precious to Fëanor than the Silmarils – his father’s love, and Námo knows it well.

His patience with Fëanor runs thin tonight.

“Not the first,” he says, folding his hands in his lap.

Manwë stares, whilst Nienna weeps and Tulkas rasps something. Then, tense silence falls and Námo isn’t surprised that Fëanor doesn’t understand the implication: the hint of what has come to pass is lost in Fëanor’s internal rage.

He broods in silence, fey light burning brightly in his eyes, and despite not wanting to, Námo catches flitters of Fëanor’s poisoned thoughts and Námo wonders if the other Gods also hear him rage. He can hardly ask, not without revealing parts of his secret.

Then, Fëanor’s hands ball into fists, anger surging. “Save me your speeches, I know. What you want you’ll take away from me,” he cries as temper gets the best of him. “Isn’t he of your kind? A thief shall reveal thieves.”

It’s as if Melkor himself speaks, dark and ugly.

Manwë’s expression is neutral but inside he weeps, of that Námo has little doubt.

“Who says so?” Námo inquires, the last remains of patience gone.

Fëanor squares his shoulders. “Me!”

“Oh, well then, it must be true,” Námo says, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Fëanor’s anger is sparked further, just as Námo has both expected and anticipated.

Fëanor glares at Námo, beginning to stalk the Ring of Doom. “What would you know of deceit and loss?” Fëanor rages, anger now charged. “Sitting idle in your throne of bones and watch the world fall apart in your twilight halls, with thralls at your feet.”

Fëanor doesn’t tolerate smiles well when angered. “Go on, Fëanáro,” Námo says, giving Fëanor his most radiant smile.

Fëanor is prone to talk himself into trouble. “Isn’t your life one fed by lies and thralldom?”

“Enough!” Tulkas thunders.

Fëanor glares. “Don’t judge me, judge yourself! Reconsider your idleness whilst the world rots beneath your eyes,” he cries, balling his fists into the air. “But alas! Do whatever your heart desires – it makes my words no less true.”

“When should I start judging you, then, if not now?” Námo asks, perfectly calm, not expecting an answer.

A few moments of tense silence stretch, and just as Fëanor is about to speak again, Námo decides he has truly heard enough of Fëanor’s insolence.

He stands from his seat, striding towards Fëanor, who struggles to press his arms against his sides. It’s one of Fëanor’s habits to force his arms to stillness whenever he’s raging. Námo has deciphered it long ago.

“Fëanáro,” he says in all his might, his voice like roaring thunder. “Freely your ancestors came to these lands and you are free to depart.”

Fëanor lifts his head in defiance, trembling with rage. “This I’ll do. I’ say farewell!” he cries, sick triumph flashing in his eyes. “By all what is holy, this I swear and you all shall be my witnesses.”

Within a heartbeat, the conversation among the Gods becomes heated; murmurs are drowned by gasps of shock. Námo hears the flitters of conversations, but his eyes are fixed on Fëanor, fascinated by the lack of subtlety of his emotions. Fëanor has never bothered much with concealing his fury, today less than ever.

“You are a fool!” Námo crosses his arms before his chest. “For an elf to hope to be victorious against Melkor is the greatest deceiver of all.” 

“What would you know of hope?” Fëanor laughs, the sound sick and ugly. “Whatever lies you shall tell me; whatever hopes you shall offer me, I’ll decline. I won’t be deceived again.”

“So you have spoken before us all, and we heard you well.” Námo inclines his head, then turns around. “Farewell.”

_Until we meet again._

Just in the very moment as Fëanor attempts to take his leave, mounted messengers appear in the Ring of Doom. Námo leans back into his chair, watching the drama unfold.

“My lord,” one messenger rasps, addressing Fëanor directly. “We bring evil tidings from Formenos.”

Fëanor appears paralyzed.

“Your father, the king,” the messenger stutters. “The king was slain, and the jewels are gone.”

“What?” Fëanor snaps, and Námo sees his posture faltering.

“A cloud of darkness came and your father was assaulted. Blood has been spilled … he .. he didn’t survive, couldn’t protect your creations,” the messenger says, unable to hold Fëanor’s gaze. “I am sorry, my lord.”

Fëanor fights against the tears welling in his eyes, his face twisting into an ugly grimace as he balled his hand high up in the air right before Manwë’s throne.

“My father is slain by one of your kind, the creations lost,” Fëanor cries, full of hate. “And you useless Gods sit idle on your thrones, whilst he – Morgoth, how he shall be named for all eternity – flees into the darkness.”

Fëanor draws in a deep breath, then rages on. ” I curse him. But I equally curse you,” he spits, pointing towards Manwë, then to all others. “All of you for summoning me in such a dark hour! My father could still be alive… alive…“

There is a moment of excruciating silence before Fëanor rushes out into the night, tears finally falling.

Námo wishes to leave, but they remain seated in the Ring of Doom, debating and mourning the loss of the Two Trees and Fëanor’s Silmarils and the Maiar and Vanya stand beside them and wept bitter tears, whilst the Noldor returned to Tirion. 

*

Words of Fëanor’s ultimate rebellion at the high court of the King upon the summit of Túna travel swift and far to the Ring of Doom – Fëanor’s banishment is not yet lifted. _‘Why should we longer serve these jealous gods, who cannot keep us, nor their own realm secure from their Enemy. Come away! Let the cowards remain.’_

Even as the rebellious and bitter words are repeated to the Gods, Námo can see Fëanor’s face in the orange light of the torches – alight with rage and wrath.

It pains him and yet he knows it is the darkness he had sensed so long ago coming to full bloom. Fëanor’s final farewell will be the ultimate consequence of it and although he knows better, Námo goes to Tirion to lay eyes upon Fëanor one last time. 

And there, disguised with a fána he has never used before, Námo stands amidst the raging crowd, for many have gathered in the torch-lit streets, listening to Fëanor’s fell words. “Fair shall the end be, though long and hard shall be the road! Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak!” he shouts and to Námo it is as if Fëanor speaks with Melkor’s own voice. “Come, and follow me! And leave this forsaken city!”

Pride burns as brightly as the lit torches, and swords are raised high into the dark sky. Then Fëanor swears a terrible oath to reclaim the Silmarils, calling Manwë and Varda as his witness.

Námo is shocked, just like so many others.

All seven sons repeat their father’s words, pledging themselves to the folly of swearing an irrevocable oath.

Arguments among the princes of the Noldor arise like the mighty sea, and before long, they are quarreling with each other and Námo slips back into the shadows.

* * *

With Finwë dead, Miriel bids the Gods to alter her fate. She’s granted a new life and the underworld itself seems to mourn her absence.

Despite Finwë’s presence in the Halls of Awaiting it has become eerily silent, as the slain king mostly prefers to keep to himself, except that one time when Námo met him accidentally in the corridor.

Finwë stares at him and Námo can’t decipher why.

He inclines his head, regarding Finwë’s soul for a while. “May I be of help?”

“No,” Finwë says, his soul swaying up and down. “I was startled by your hair-style, that is all. I wonder who gave you those braids.”

 _Fuck._ In the woods of Formenos Námo has adopted Fëanor’s way of swearing.

Námo doesn’t say it. He’s become so used wearing the courtship braids Fëanor once gave him that he has entirely forgotten about it.

_Your son._

Námo doesn’t say that, either, searching for something else to say.

“My apologies,” Finwë says. “It is none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

There isn’t much to do for Námo’s Maiar in the halls, so they resume their journeys to the settlements of the Eldar again, partly on Námo’s behalf. According to them, many weapons must have been forged in secrecy as trade flourishes unashamed on Tirion’s streets, and bitter words prevail.

The Flight of the Noldor happens swiftly. Fëanor and his sons immediately prepare to leave Aman behind, despite Finarfin suggesting a delay.

“Nay,” Fëanor cries. “Let us be gone! I shall not spend a night longer here than absolutely necessary!”

Many heed Fëanor’s call and set forth, marching towards what they perceive as a new life instead of the greatest tragedy. New quarrels about leadership arise between the followers of Fëanor and Fingolfin so that in the end, the Noldor are divided in two parts.

Debates are again held among the Gods on how to proceed with Fëanor’s rebellion, and Manwë’s grief surpasses even Yavanna’s lamentation.

“Perhaps, we can convince those who have not sworn the Oath to reconsider their decision?” Manwë asks, gazing out into the world.

Námo raises an eyebrow but says nothing, waiting until Manwë continues to speak. “Perhaps, we can convince them of their folly if we make clear that no aid will come from us? If we tell them of dark tidings?”

Námo snorts. “Well then, try your luck.”

“Don’t you think we might have a chance?” Manwë asks.

Námo stands, shaking his head. He knows how very persuasive Fëanor can be. “All hope is lost. Fëanáro’s words ring in their minds day and night; the promises of a beautiful future drowning out all rationality,” he says. “No matter how hard you try, you’ll try in vain.”

Just as with Melkor, Manwë would not be swayed. “But try I must.”

Námo won’t argue against his king.

And so a messenger rides out to meet the Noldor, speaking the words Manwë himself had crafted so that indeed some hearts might be changed.

_‘Go not forth! Do not turn your back on friends and forsake Fëanáro’s quest of folly.’_

And although Námo feels like laughing, he remains silent on the matter, even when the messenger returns.

The outcome is as expected. Although some hearts might have been swayed no-one dared to question Fëanor’s decisions publicly and so the journey of the Noldor into the unknown begins.

*

Sudden pain has Námo awake within seconds. The pain of death is sharp and piercing, like a stab to Námo’s heart.

_One._

_Two._

_Three. Four. Five._

_Six._

After that, he’s losing count.

Although Námo perceives the deaths of the Eldar, he does not know what has come to pass. It worries him; and it enrages him; and for a second, fear that Melkor has returned renders him immobile, for this is the only possible explanation – until the first souls of the slain Teleri pass into the Realm of the Dead. With them, the bitter truth is revealed.

The grand hall in which Námo sits his onyx throne to receive the souls of the dead fills with songs of sorrow and wailing murmurs.

“They came in the middle of the night to take the ships!” The soul wails, shaking uncontrolled. “The ships!”

“We’ve been friends for centuries,” the soul adds. “Olwë tried to calm the Noldor’s rage.”

“To no avail,” another weeps. “They came with swords and torches!”

Námo knows the answer and yet he asks, “Who?”

He has little doubt that Fëanor had stirred his followers into action to commit such unspeakable crimes, but one alone can hardly slay that many. The affirmation comes shortly after.

“Fëanáro – Fëanáro and his followers,” one soul says. “They were so many! We thought them friends, and yet we had to fight them but we made sure not to kill them. We fought them and drove them back again and again. But then more came pouring in, trying to steal the works of our hearts.”

Námo reaches out, stilling the swaying soul with his hands.

Something icy settles in Námo’s heart, runs through his veins and chills him to the bone: through the soul of the fallen Námo sees Fëanor’s madness with his own eyes. He’s standing on one of the lamplit quays in Alqualondë, detached from the present yet right in the middle. The battle roars around him. Screams mix with cries of anguish, and the clash of swords, whilst commands are shouted through the air. Blood and bodies tumble in the rolling waves, some already scattered along the beach. Some of them are still moving, their legs twisted at unnatural angles – if from the surf or in pain he can’t tell.

“Findekáno was among them,” one soul says, and Námo’s mind snaps back into presence.

“The sons of Fëanáro, too.”

“As were the sons of Ñolofinwë.”

“So many.”

“Oh, so many.”

“They have slain their own kin,” the soul weeps. “The surf wept blood.” 

Unquenchable anger fills Námo upon the Noldor’s atrocity.

_One._

_Five._

_Twenty._

The next wave of souls arrives without a warning, Noldor this time. 

Quarrels arise among the souls immediately, so Námo’s Maiar guide the souls of the slain Teleri away.

“Suddenly the sea rose in wrath –“ one of the slain Noldor says. “The ships were wrecked, and in them, we drowned.”

The sea has completely broken him, Námo observes. His soul is swollen, the smell of sea-water still clinging to it.

“There wasn’t a storm.”

“There wasn’t even wind.”

“And yet there were giant waves!”

Námo reaches out to Ulmo. _‘Have you raised the sea at Alqualondë?’_

The answer comes instantly. _‘I wish I had, but no. Despite the cruelty of the Noldor, I obeyed the order not to interfere, and so did Ossë. Uinen, however …’_

That explains why Námo had not sensed the souls’ arrival before; in her wrath, Uinen had used her powers to hide her revenge.

“The tide was full of bodies.”

“And shipwrecked men, struggling for their lives.”

“They drowned all, as another giant wave came rushing in. I saw.”

“You were dead!”

“And yet I saw.”

Námo doesn’t even dare to thank them for the information. “That is all I need to know,” he says, calling his Maiar to his aid. “Your judgment must wait.”

Those kinslayers who still live deserve his attention.

_What kind of punishment fits the crime?_

The rage has been building up, swelling, peaking, like a giant wave, and Námo feels as if he’s drowning in it. His innards feel as if he’s about to burst in indignation, sparked by Fëanor’s cruelty. He sees him smiling, laughing – his arrogance, the mocking grin of defiance firmly in place. Hot fury burns brightly and Námo wishes he could confront Fëanor alone. 

With most of the swan ships wrecked by Uinen’s wrath, there’s exactly one option for the Noldor to leave Aman behind: the Northern route, long and full of hardship, which Fëanor had wished to circumvent by stealing the ships from the Teleri.

Fëanor leads the remaining Noldor to the great wasteland of Araman, where icy winds always blow.

There, high up on a cliff with the raging sea below, Námo awaits them.

He’s indifferent to the cold, the swirling snowflakes and the roaring waves, his black robes with silver highlights on the sleeves blowing in the wind just like the veil in front of his face. Although usually, Námo doesn’t wear his crown of spikes and thorns, for this occasion he does, just as he wears his unaccustomed sword. Although it remains sheathed, his hand rests atop the hilt, as if to be ready to act should the need arise. It’s symbolism, nothing else. Just like Ulmo, he would not physically intervene in the Eldar’s fate.

As his eyes fall on the marching Noldor a fresh wave of anger washes over him. Anguish and hate; grief and wrath – until then, Námo has never understood how truly entwined all fates have become.

Fëanor leads his followers with the dignity and pride of a thousand kings, looking ahead and never back – direct, focused – solemnity and fire burning in his eyes.

Námo shouldn’t feel remorse – and yet he does; his heart shouldn’t be weeping – and yet memories of Fëanor’s laughter, bright and cheerful, floods his mind, reminding him of better days. And yet amidst the beauty he once had felt the ugliness of unrightfully spilled blood and hatred mingle; the vision of Fëanor’s grimacing face, caked in blood. 

Námo’s gaze is set determinedly in the direction of Fëanor and his followers.

He mustn’t be swayed, mustn’t tarry.

And yet.

Námo holds his breath, counts his heartbeats before he raises his voice and speaks his doom, loud and terrible – both curse and prophecy, and it is then that he finally understands the visions – mere snippets of doom – he has perceived all his life.

_“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever.”_

Námo cries, his voice swelling and mixing with the surf thundering up against the rock in a terrific roar. Then, suddenly the wind falls and there’s dead calm, through which his voice cuts like a blade.

_“Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.” (x)_

Murmurs arise among the Noldor. Fëanor listens but he doesn’t understand. Upon the dark words of doom he turns around, sword lifted high up into the sky in defiance.

His words are filled with black anger, deaf to the bitter fate just revealed to them. “Curse me, curse us as your heart desires if you seek vengeance for your wounded honor! I shall never serve you jealous gods again! Sworn we have, and not lightly! Until the last days of Arda we’ll keep this oath.”

Námo isn’t surprised by Fëanor’s reaction.

“So be it,” he says and falls silent.

And indeed he is surprised that Finarfin speaks against Fëanor and forsakes his doomed quest. Many of those loyal to the House of Finarfin follow their lord, returning to receive the pardon of the Gods.

*

Námo, however, lingers. The cold crisp air blowing from the North into his face is piercing like a thousand needles. The snowflakes sparkle like diamonds, dancing around him, and the cold transforms his breath into silver clouds. Námo’s gaze turns north-east, towards the frozen desert, where winter always reigns. 

Irmo places an arm around Námo’s shoulder. “He’ll return,” he says.

“How would you know?” Námo inquires, gazing out over the vast ocean. He’s uncertain if he even desires to see Fëanor ever again. “I could not bring myself to offer him the pomegranates.”

Irmo rolls his eyes, then sighs. “I was never speaking of the pomegranates in the first place.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (x) From the Silmarillion


	4. The Looming Towers

* * *

_The Dagor-nuin-Giliath was heralded long ago – it’s the gentle prelude of a grey world of tears and war._

_As soon as Melkor learns of the arrival of the Noldor, he summons his armies to attack. Even before the first stroke falls, Námo’s Maiar swarm out of the Halls of Awaiting to collect the souls of the fallen. They are sentenced to wait and watch the dreadfulness unfold, as they are not allowed to meddle with the affairs of the living. Their work begins the moment death reigns on the battlefield when wounds are too fatal to be healed. The soul leaves the body and the call of Mandos fills the air, a susurrating whisper that another journey awaits._

_They attend the confused souls and, in the end, guard and shield them on their last journey to the Halls of Awaiting so that no soul might be captured by the Black Foe for sick experimentation._

* * *

The Battle under the Stars is won, but despite the Noldor being victorious, Fëanor does not find comfort in the victory, nor rest. Morgoth and many of his wretched servants are still alive, the stolen Silmarils out of reach.

Together with his sons, Fëanor presses on and rides towards Angband, fueled by consuming rage for his enemies to reclaim what is rightfully theirs. It is cold and dark, and nothing except the pale and glittering stars guide their way towards the looming towers of Thangorodrim, spiraling high into the sky.

For a brief moment, Fëanor halts to drink in the sight of Morgoth’s wretched fortress before he gives his horse the spurs, leaving his sons behind.

The closer he comes towards Angband, the stronger the whispers of the Silmarils become, mingling with Fëanor’s rage. They speak to him, ensnare him, and encourage him to ride on.

“Father!” Maedhros shouts far in the distance.

Fëanor wheels his horse around but it’s too late. The Balrogs’ assault is swift and without mercy, and although Fëanor fights valiantly, the wounds he receives from Gothmog are severe. The Balrog’s fiery whip cuts heavily into his shoulder, although he twists away as quickly as he can, blood erupting. Fëanor grits his teeth, and backs off, eyes never leaving his roaring enemy. White-hot rage boils deep within his chest, his body shaking both from pain and hatred. The Balrog is Morgoth’s creature, fierce and fell, yet his true enemy is nowhere in sight.

“Where does your craven lord hide?” Fëanor cries. “The one who lacks all courage!”

The Balrog only grunts in response, before he attacks again, swifter this time. Once, twice, the fiery whip rips through Fëanor’s flesh until he stumbles and falls.

And as he lies there on the ground, dust swirling about him he hears the thunder of hooves and yet he knows it’s too late. His wounds are fatal.

Fëanor is already closer towards the realm of the dead than to this world when his sons carry him off the battlefield, concern spread across their faces. On the slopes of Ered Wethrin they lie him down where once again he looks upon the dark peaks of Thangorodrim. It is here, with strange pale faces clouding his vision, that he understands how hopeless the cause against Morgoth truly is.

“I curse thee, foul Vala and all thy brood. Morgoth!” Fëanor rasps, voice getting weaker with each passing moment. “One day there’ll be a reckoning! I curse thee thrice!”

“Father!”

_‘Father!’_

The voices of his sons become faint until they completely fade away. A loud bang mingles with his sons’ words, then his soul is surrounded by hideously bright light. Fëanor tries to shield his eyes against the assault but his hands do not obey his mind’s command any longer. After the light, darkness comes in the form of black smoke that wraps its fingers around his soul.

“No!”

_“No!”_

When the smoke around him is gone, he looks into a twilight face, framed by a silver halo. It is then that Fëanor knows he’s dead. The being's gaze is soft as he looks down, and whilst at first, its radiance – bright and pure – is painful for Fëanor’s soul to perceive, he adjusts to it quickly.

“Come,” the strange being says in the same voice Fëanor had become so familiar with when alive. “Come, your arrival is awaited.”

He’s dead and yet he clings to the world of the living, unable to let go.

“Come. The Halls of Mandos await you.”

Fëanor ignores Mandos’ call. He watches his sons, standing around a smoking pile of ashes.

Maedhros.

Maglor.

Curufin says something, but Fëanor can’t hear it.

Maedhros raises his hand – or so Fëanor thinks as his vision blurs.

“Come!”

“Nelyafinwë!” Fëanor shouts but Maedhros does not seem to hear.

It’s frustrating.

“Curufinwë!” he tries again, louder this time.

No reaction.

“They can’t hear you,” the being tells him.

“I need to guide them,” Fëanor snaps, shaking. “I need to advise them.”

“Ill advice is given by those who are dead,” the being says.

Fëanor thinks about this, unable to differentiate anymore who is who; pain choking his soul breathless.

“Namárië,” Fëanor whispers, finally bidding his sons and the world farewell.

* * *

The pain is gone, and brightness washes over him.

Fëanor is floating – or flying through an endless sea of white until darkness wraps its shadows around him. Yet it’s not dark at all: there are stars, twinkling and sparkling, and in the empty space between them Fëanor sees himself, standing amidst a sea of flames. It’s the burning of the ships at Losgar, he realizes, the image already exchanged against another vision.

Next, he sees himself bent over the storm-tossed ship, retching into the waves. The image is subsided by the curse of Mandos ringing in his ears, ‘ _and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be’_ uttered by a dark figure standing high upon a cliff. The bitter consequence of putting his own kin to the blade. The surf of Alqualondë beach is red with blood, through which Fëanor wades in search for Curufin; and it’s Curufin’s scream of approval that he hears, repeating the Oath amidst a sea of torches, _‘Death we will deal him ere Day’s ending, woe unto world’s end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather!’_

“Fëanáro.” A voice calls, reaching out to him, yet Fëanor fails to identify who is speaking, despite it sounding remotely familiar.

The images appear fast and faster; the years of banishment at Formenos, the hunting in the woods together with his sons; the result of threatening Fingolfin with a blade, all interrupted by shooting stars. Then, his father’s second wedding is on display with the Valar giving it their blessing and Fëanor’s soul feels like retching again.

“Fëanáro.” He hears the voice again, closer this time.

The black sky is streaked by dancing light of pink and green, a giant arch wafting through the sky. It’s close, so close, that Fëanor stretches out his hand to touch it. Instead of the lights, it’s as if he’s touching Maedhros’s face because it’s what is shown next, immediately exchanged by the giant feast of the Valar, which he had attended together with his beloved wife.

Their wedding was shortly before, and even now, he remembers Nerdanel’s smile of happiness, the freckles he had so much loved. The rings he had crafted specifically for their ceremony, their matching circlets. And then he sees his mother, having laid herself to rest in the Gardens of Lorien, and besides her, his young self weeps until tears won’t come anymore. The grief, the helplessness, it’s all there – and into it the call of his name merges: “Fëanáro, _Fëanáro_.”

And then his mind snaps into the present.

Torchlight illuminates the darkness.

Once Fëanor’s soul has accustomed itself to its flickering light, his spirit perceives what he thinks is a giant hall hewn into stone, deep down below the earth. A river runs in its middle, separating the Realm of the Living and the Dead, or so Fëanor thinks. On each side of it, one of those otherworldly beings stands in silence, looking exactly the same. Silver clothes and silver hair, with stoic faces and lifeless eyes. They must be Maiar assigned to Námo, he assumes.

Fëanor wonders if his soul can move of its own accord; he tries to direct his thoughts to moving forward, a bit surprised that indeed his soul begins to rock gently. Then, he tries again, and again. Like this, he reaches the edge of the river. The torches on the wall opposite of him reflect in the calm surface and in between the spots of light, he sees the reflection of his soul, rocking. Just like the torches, it is glowing but in an entirely different light. Whilst the glow of the torches is orange his own light is blinding white.

“Why?” Fëanor wonders, his soul reaching out to the Maiar. “How?

All around him is silent.

“This is the River of Sorrow,” the Maia says instead of answering Fëanor’s question. “It is fed by Nienna’s tears of lamentation.”

It’s the first time since his death that Fëanor thinks: nonsense. 

If still alive, he’d raise an eyebrow. “Is it?” he asks, already yearning for his physical form.

The being keeps his silence.

“Then it’s not,” Fëanor mutters, feeling coldness wrap around his soul, suspecting it’s the presence of the Maiar.

He doesn’t like it, trying to put as much distance as possible between his soul and them. 

The tiny boat in the river at the end of the cave sways in mockery, catching Fëanor’s attention. He directs his thoughts, swaying forward again.

The boat is made from bones carved from wood, Fëanor realizes, daring a closer look. It’s ugly, in its very own way - morbid – but beautiful craftmanship regardless, and Fëanor takes his time to admire it.

It’s then that he understands something is truly amiss – wood, no matter how old, has a distinct smell to it, one Fëanor has come to dearly love. Yet there’s nothing, not even a subtle scent of it. He makes his soul sniff again: nothing! His memories of caves are quite specific: the earthy odor, a particularly vivid smell he’d been addicted to since his childhood. It’s missing, completely, just as the smell of burning torches. Being robbed of his senses is the first punishment of many yet to come, Fëanor thinks.

And as if to mock him, the voice calls out again, “Fëanáro.”

“Get thee gone!” Fëanor screams, hoping the cry travels through the walls to wherever this is.

The Maia has taken advantage of Fëanor’s distraction. Suddenly, the boat begins to stir upstream, guided along the river by the being.

“What madness!” Fëanor spits, his soul struggling to move off the boat. He can’t, his spirit forsaking his command.

Even dead, Fëanor is quite easily angered. “Námo!” he calls out, reckless because calling on the Gods directly is always reckless. Not that Fëanor had ever cared whilst he lived. “What treachery is this?”

There isn’t an answer, apart from the gentle sound of the moving boat, a fact that does not surprise Fëanor at all. They are all cravens.

Fëanor doesn’t try it again, simply staring at the river until the boat reaches a giant gate, below which the river simply disappears. It’s black like the night, starless and grim, cold.

Nine Maiar, distinctly female, guard the gate.

“Fëanáro,” each of them says.

“Your arrival has been heralded.”

Their lifeless eyes regard him and to Fëanor it is as if they are looking into his very soul.

“And awaited.”

“Welcome.”

It echoes through the cave. _“Welcome.”_

_“Welcome.”_

Fëanor’s soul feels chill, even before the great gate swings open. Three of the Maiar step inside, their silver robes brushing against the dark tiles of the floor and despite not exactly wanting it, Fëanor’s soul follows their movement until he’s enframed by all nine of them.

And then the gate falls shut behind him.

Fëanor’s soul sways, lingering in the timeless void between the great gate and another that stands open before him. The Maiar are now standing behind him, their whispers becoming an endless chant. The whisperers of darkness reach out to Fëanor’s soul; they are around him, above and below him, wrapping their silver fingers around his houseless spirit. He fights the invasion, swaying forward towards the open gate.

The floor is black, except a vertical mosaic of purple lilies, aligning with the frame of the open gate. Despite not wanting it, Fëanor catches himself admiring the details of moths feeding on the nectar of the flowers as if they’re in fact living things. He hadn’t expected to see anything beautiful in the Realm of Death, and before he realizes it, his soul sways across the threshold.

Suddenly, the voices are gone and all falls silent.

*


	5. A Kingdom Without Joy

*

With the threshold crossed, a new world opens to Fëanor’s soul.

Despite not wanting to, he stares in awe. Architecture has always fascinated Fëanor.

The domed hall he looks into is vast – as it is empty.

Many pillars stretch upwards, the halls light gloomy, a strange mixture of blue and purple. At first, he does not understand where the light derives from; then, his gaze travels upwards to the stained windows through which filtered light falls.

Where outside the Halls of Awaiting black had seemed dominant, inside it is more colorful than Fëanor had expected it. High up hangs a massive chandelier with burning candles, flickering in the gentle flow of fresh air. It’s wrought of silver metal, wide enough to almost span the entire hall.

Fëanor directs his soul to sway upwards to take a closer look at the stained windows above him, and to some extent, he even manages until two of the Maiar are at his sides to restrain him.

“Let go of me,” he hisses at them, trying to wrestle free. He doesn’t succeed, his soul being brought down again.

Fëanor catches sight of the Lord of the Dead across the hall, now sitting in his throne of black and silver skulls. The dark stone, polished and without edges, reflects the filtered light, as does the mosaic on the wall behind the dais – a giant sword of silver, crossed by a scale.

_Justice._

Fëanor snorts at the irony of it, remembering both the curse and the conversation in the Ring of Doom. Where had the justice been in that?

There are many words which he associates with Námo – vanity, sarcasm, loathing – but justice isn’t among them.

There’d been nothing just in the prophecy; nothing just in his banishment to Formenos. In fact, he had never received justice from the Valar’s hands in all his life.

Anger begins to bubble inside Fëanor’s soul from the memory of it.

Usually, anger had brought heat to his face, as if it’s been the fuel for his existence. Right now, there’s nothing. No warmth, no comfort – only bitter cold. 

Although Námo’s eyes are veiled, Fëanor feels his piercing gaze upon him. He’d love to ball his hands, just as he had done each time they had been confronted with each other in the past. Being robbed of his physical form, that possibility is taken from him by injustice, just as so much else.

The silence, tense and uncomfortable, settles in Fëanor’s spirit.

If Námo notices Fëanor’s set of mind, he isn’t swayed by it, regarding him with a stoic demeanor.

Fëanor stares right back.

The crown Námo wears is breathtaking – not that Fëanor would ever come close to admit it. Spikes of different lengths formed as arrows shoot into the air from what seems like blooming roses, pearls set in their midst and thorn around it. Dangles are attached to it, tingling with every little move of the Vala’s head. Fëanor has noticed the silver halos around the Maiar’s head before – plain and simple, a circle of silver light; they are no comparison to Námo’s own. It is also silver, but much brighter so – almost hideously bright, with nine glowing stars scattered amidst it as if to resemble the nine Maiar who had welcomed him.

Wretched, Fëanor thinks, yet finds he can’t look away.

“Gods may forget but they do never forgive,” Námo says and it is as if the hall rattles from the intensity of it. “Welcome to my realm, now that I have your attention fully. Welcome, Fëanáro, son of Finwë and Míriel, both once cherished guests in my halls. In darkness you shall take counsel with yourself, reflecting on everything you have done until the world is remade.”

The Lord of Shadows, Fëanor thinks, he who rules this joyless kingdom. Fëanor is quite fond of the eloquence of the phrase, glad that this ability isn’t robbed of him.

“And in the darkness, you shall watch me?”

Námo laughs. The sound is ugly, even to Fëanor’s dead ears.

“Your entire existence is based on hubris, I remember that well,” Námo tells him, resulting in Fëanor’s spirit leaping. “But worry not. As a matter of fact, I will not. Those who you have slain unrighteously still wail in despair. And soon more souls will keep pouring in. Of that, you have made certain whilst alive.”

“So, in the end, every death is a consequence of mine?” Fëanor asks, glaring.

Námo nods, gripping the armrests of his throne with boney fingers. “Remind me, what did you once swear? Ah yes, _‘woe unto world’s end’_ , wasn’t it that?”

Fëanor’s spirit sways violently. “You make my Oath your excuse?“ he laughs bitterly. “I perhaps shouldn’t be surprised. You all were always quick to disguise your own inabilities by blaming others.”

“Yes, you have told me so before,” Námo says, flashing a smile towards Fëanor. “And yet you’ve been too blind to see the consequences of what you did.”

Not even the blackness of the never-ending night will ever quench Fëanor’s fire. Even then, dead, the fire flickers and leaps. “Whatever I did was a consequence of the Gods' inability to rule. I’ve seen enough cruelty from your hands for a thousand lives,” Fëanor says, referring to his father’s death.

“What a most fortunate coincidence that you’ll never live another life again.”

The air titters with little voices from hidden creatures, of the sort which Fëanor has already come to loathe.

“What?” Fëanor snaps.

Námo’s smile is sardonic. “Although you might have missed the hint at it before, I now assume you heard me well – and understood.” The flash of triumph Fëanor sees is sick and twisted. “You shall be a guest in my halls until the world is remade.”

Fëanor’s soul sways forward. “A guest? A prisoner I am!” The name of the halls serves them well – it truly feels like a prison and nothing else.

“You are exactly what you decide to be,” Námo says, an air of indifference wafting around him. “And now you will have to excuse me.”

The anger of Fëanor’s soul feels unquenchable upon the injustice served to him. But then, what else has he expected? “No!” Fëanor snaps.

“No?” Námo seems amused, angering Fëanor further. “You are in no position to demand anything of me. There is an order to the Realm of the Dead, Fëanáro. In the world of the living, you may have tried to defy the Gods all you like – an insolence which shall not be tolerated here, where one rule is absolute: your soul may never leave again.”

_‘I shall never serve you jealous gods!’_

Fëanor remembers that line well, quite certain that Námo also does; but Fëanor doesn’t feel regret nor apologetic – not for what he said nor for anything he’d done.

The answer he receives is laughter, followed by cold indifference. “Then brood in darkness.”

Námo rises from his throne, walking down the dais with a grace Fëanor hadn’t expected.

And then, with Námo gone, there’s silence again, wretched and miserable.

Of all the things Fëanor hates, it is silence that he hates the most. There always has been much noise in his life.

* * *

In the gloomy twilight of his own room Fëanor broods, mostly as there’s nothing else to do. Although he’s allowed to walk the Halls of Awaiting as he desires with two exceptions, Fëanor doesn’t see any need to do that. The architecture aside, only unpleasantness awaits him, or so at least Fëanor thinks, entirely unwilling to be proven differently.

Day feels like night, and the true night doesn’t feel any different. There are no stars, no change of season in the Halls of Awaiting – no laughter, no joy in this joyless kingdom, and so his spirit lingers between sleep and wakefulness.

Days turn into months, and months turn into years in the timeless void. Fëanor is certain a century has already passed in the never-ending darkness.

_What are they doing?_

_Where are they?_

_Have they reclaimed the Silmarils?_

He wonders, and when he doesn’t, he is bored to death. A life spent in bitter idleness has never been his goal.

_Would I be informed if they succeed?_

Fëanor doubts it with all his heart.

_Would I know … if they are here?_

He doubts that, too, anger flashing.

And then his spirit weeps.

He’d never know about their lives again; their dreams, their families. Perhaps, by now, he’s grandfather to a bunch of kids, who he’ll never take into his arms. And amidst his thoughts of disappointment and injustice, the oath begins to whisper again.

_The Silmarils._

_‘Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not doom itself shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro’s kin.’_

If he only had his body, he could at least pinch himself between his fingers to divert the pain as he had done so often as a child. But even that little comfort is forsaken him.

*

Darkness has become a constant in Fëanor’s afterlife.

It’s a mocking irony for one who had shone so brightly while alive – but then, inside the confines here – who’d ever care? After all, his fiery spirit had brought him to the Realm of Death in the first place. Fëanor still remembers his rash decision to pursue Morgoth after the Battle under the Stars and the Balrog’s fiery whip.

Regardless of that, he notices that his memories seem to flee his mind in the shadows until only a blurred vagueness is left to hold onto.

If he could only dream …

Sometimes, Fëanor feels as if his thoughts are interrupted and he’s being watched by invisible eyes. He had searched everywhere but never found anything, except for Námo’s silent servants. At first, he’d thought they’d bring him to the great hall again at their lord’s bidding – but they never did. In fact, they pay him no mind, and for that Fëanor is thankful.

On other times, he catches flitters of conversations, far away, together with the light of flickering torches – and that is when finally, he forsakes being bound to the shadows of his own room.

Time does not exist in the Halls of Awaiting.

There are no seasons, no before or after, only now and the past, thoughts of a life devoted to service to a future he will never see. Fëanor’s soul is free to wander the halls as it is his desire, and now sometimes he does, swaying along the corridors or watching the Maiar going about their daily business, or at least what they pretend to do.

Fëanor thinks they are bored to death, his soul laughing at the irony of his choice of words.

By now he had figured out that there’s a hierarchy to them, Maiar of lesser power – those who just seem to be around day and night, whilst others, those wielding more powers interact with the repenting souls.

The Halls of Awaiting are a torturous maze. In the flicker of the torchlight, each black wall, carved into the heart of the earth, is identical. Blind passageways lead to alternating pathways, corridors and twisting tunnels confusing the wandering souls. Even to Fëanor, skilled as he is in navigation, it’s hard to find his way back where he had begun his wanderings.

The next time he wanders, he tries to retrace each step in his mind as his soul sways along the stone floor. The labyrinth is beautifully built with its identical pathways of unyielding stone, and at the same time it’s ugly: it’s a prison, and sometimes, Fëanor feels as if it holds exactly one prisoner – himself.

During all his wanderings Fëanor avoids the Teleri at the far end of the halls, those he had put to the sword himself; avoids even any proximity, unwilling to be directly confronted with his past.

“Kinslayer,” he sometimes had heard them whisper, not even behind his back whenever his soul had passed by close enough to be perceived.

Somewhere, the Noldor who have fallen in Alqualondë by Uinen’s wrath must be residing but Fëanor doesn’t find them, no matter how hard he searches.

_Ten, twenty – if not more._

Where could they be hidden?

Fëanor rephrases the words in his mind: _Where are they locked away?_

For why, he already has an answer: out of spite, to keep his soul separated from his own kin.

One day though, he stumbles across an unguarded soul of whom he thinks he identifies as a loyal follower to him.

“You,” Fëanor calls out, surprised how strange from disuse his voice sounds. “I once knew you.”

The soul spins around. “I wish I never knew _you_ ,” he spits. “My wife, my daughters, lost forever in the raging waves.”

Fëanor’s excitement turns to choking disappointment and despite being unable to physically shake, he feels his soul tremble.

_Forever._

The words sink in; bleed into Fëanor’s soul day and night, and it makes him wonder. Isn’t he the only one to remain in this wretched place until the world is remade? What decides who’s granted leave – and more importantly, how can the initial judgment be altered?

Twice had Fëanor been close to asking the Maiar, but twice he had discarded the thought after some consideration – they wouldn’t answer him.

There’s exactly one person he can ask.

The idea is discarded even faster than the one before. He won’t prostitute himself for Námo’s sick entertainment. 

And yet – day after day his thoughts run rampant, bringing out the worst of Fëanor’s mind. It’s slowly driving him mad. Each thought sinks its venomous teeth deeper into Fëanor’s spirit; and each thought poisons his mind further in every destructive manner imaginable.

He needs answers.

Fëanor is torn, contemplating in darkness what to do.

Faintly he remembers how it had been like to wear confidence as an unyielding shield, how to raise his fist in defiance.

Perhaps, he should request an audience,

or perhaps he should at least ask one of the Maiar of lesser power.

Recklessness wins over consideration. Fëanor’s soul simply sways into the great hall, coming to a sudden halt before Námo’s throne.

Námo regards Fëanor as if he’s bored, hand supporting his head, with his index finger pointing upwards. There’s neither crown nor veil upon this time, only purple eyes that seem to stare right into his soul. Fëanor braces himself; he won’t flinch, won’t sway and be discouraged by a stare alone.

“Of all the inhabitants of my Halls, I expected you the least,” Námo remarks, silver hair adorned with jewels tumbling across his shoulder.

Fëanor has never seen him like this before.

Fëanor wrinkles his nose – or so he would have done if he’s still alive. Námo’s demeanor is unnerving. “When will I be released from these halls?” Fëanor asks, unable to hold it in any longer.

Námo quirks an eyebrow, amusement shining from his eyes. “Patience is a cherished virtue, one you’ve always lacked,” he states, and Fëanor feels his anger flaring. “Be that as it may. I have already answered your question, but I graciously will answer it again: you’ll remain my guest until Dagor Dagorach is fought and the world is hence remade. So far you have not even begun to repent for your crimes.”

“Because I did nothing wrong,” Fëanor snarls. 

Námo leans down towards Fëanor’s swaying soul. “My guests beg to differ.”

Fëanor keeps his silence, discontent with the reply, quite obviously so. “What do you expect when you are released?” Námo, therefore, adds, eying Fëanor’s soul closely. “Cheering crowds and joyful parades upon your return? Think of all the wives who have lost their husbands to a forsaken quest; the mothers who have lost their sons to endless grief?”

Fëanor’s spirit is working. He wishes to deny the truth to Námo’s words, yet that one encounter with one of the slain Noldor has proven exactly that.

“And don’t even dare to assume that their bitter words are the result of manipulation…”

Fëanor snarls, then spins around and leaves. Not because he’s disillusioned – that had happened centuries ago; not because he is too stubborn to listen, but because he is entirely unwilling to give Námo the satisfaction of being right.

And yet, the encounter has Fëanor’s mind reeling for days.

For the first time, he yearns truly and utterly for his physical form; to actually run through the passageways until his legs forsake him, to pinch the skin between his fingers as he has made it a habit – to feel and perceive as it’s meant to be. Not like this – being condemned to a miserable existence as a houseless spirit. It’s torture and only that.

*

After the incident with one of the slain Noldor, Fëanor doesn’t search for the company of his kin again. ‘ _Little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you.’_ Yet another part of the prophecy has been fulfilled.

Loneliness persisted. By now he knows every tile, every stone of the labyrinth; has counted the torches that light the passageways, five hundred seventy in total.

He has counted Námo’s Maiar as well. Thirty-one of lesser power, eighteen of higher power – twenty who he had identified as female, twenty who he identified as male, and nine who appeared to be female one day and male on the next.

Of some, he even knows the name. What he also knows about those being male is that they all look remotely similar to the Maia he has met in the woods of Formenos so long ago, but not quite – the special kind of beauty lacks. He knows that they are all graced with the gift to change their fána, however, not a single one of them has used that power so far.

_Perhaps, I can approach them?_

He discards the idea, only to pick it up again the next day.

Fëanor had always expected attention. Right now, he received none.

“Hey!” Fëanor calls out to one of Námo’s Maia during his wanderings through the labyrinth.

The Maia turns around, startled and Fëanor’s soul leaps in delight. It’s the first time that anyone in the halls has reacted to him in a way that wasn’t in mocking sarcasm or outright hatred.

The Maia regards Fëanor’s soul for a moment as if he’s searching for something, then says, “I knew your mother well.”

At first, Fëanor feels sudden anger, after all, he has never truly known his mother, then anger is exchanged for curiosity.

“You did?” he asks, swaying closer.

The Maia nods. “Yes. We often sat beneath the weeping willows, talking. She’s dearly missed. By me, by all of us.”

Fëanor’s indecisive. “There are no weeping willows?” he carefully asks, suspecting to be tricked.

The Maia shakes his head. “No, there aren’t. Not here at least. There’s a fenced courtyard outside, that’s where the willows grow.”

Fëanor’s spirit flickers uncontrolled, struggling to form coherent words in his excitement. “Can I go?”

Although he doesn’t know how long he’s already stuck in the timeless halls, he feels as if he has already forgotten how the wind had once felt upon his skin; the mesmerizing sight to watch the clouds pass by above him.

“That is not for me to decide,” the Maia tells him. Fëanor had almost thought as much. “But you may ask my lord.”

Fëanor doesn’t like the prospect of it.

“Given if I ask and am granted leave,” Fëanor ventures carefully, doubting that he’ll ever ask – and even more that he’s allowed to go. “Would you accompany me?”

The Maia nods. “Yes.”

Fëanor decides he doesn’t want to go alone to the great hall, mostly because he probably will take so long to find his way that he will forget about it. “Would you accompany me to your lord?”

Again, the Maia nods. “If that is your wish, I will.”

“It is,” Fëanor states.

And so Fëanor’s soul sways next to the Maiar, struggling to keep pace with him until they arrive in the great hall.

“Is he causing trouble?” Námo asks.

Fëanor glares. As if that’s the only thing he is capable of.

“No, my lord.”

Even dead, Fëanor can speak for himself. “I’ve expressed my wish to visit the gardens, there where my mother has spent much time,” he explains, holding Námo’s gaze.

“It is true, Míriel has indeed spent much of her time outside,” Námo confirms, regarding Fëanor as if he’s considering the request. “I don’t see any harm that could come from it. I’ll grant you leave, whenever you find somebody who will accompany you, at least in the beginning.”

Fëanor stares, taken aback.

Námo isn’t known for his kindness; doesn’t bestow charity upon anyone.

_Deception._

_Treachery._

The words form immediately in Fëanor’s mind. It can only be that.

Fëanor inclines his head, or lets his soul think he does, unable to force a thank you past his lips.

*

The light outside is hideously bright, piercing Fëanor’s soul like a blade. He tries to shield his soul from it, swaying towards the nearest tree in the courtyard. His soul has become so accustomed to the gloomy twilight of the Halls of Awaiting that even the light of a cloudy day is far too bright for him.

“The sun,” the Maia explains, taking his seat on the bench below the tree where Fëanor hides. “Its warmth is quite pleasant once you’ve accustomed yourself to the light.”

_Warmth._

Fëanor can’t remember what it feels like.

Many trees grow in the fenced courtyard, apples, oranges, and pomegranates, with archways and gushing fountains in between, and a little pond where two weeping willows stand. Its layout is not entirely unlike the Gardens of Lórien, which he had visited often as a child.

“I … I never truly knew my mother,” Fëanor says, a sudden sadness overwhelming him. Memories are golden and precious and so little he remembers of her. “She has laid herself down to eternal rest before I was old enough to comprehend much.”

The Maia nods. “I know. You must have been a child when she arrived here. With her, life came into the halls and she was often found in the company of Vairë, but not solely. She often approached us, whenever she felt like company, which we always gladly gave.” 

Fëanor breathes with the wind, slow and steady, relishing in the freshness it brings to his soul.

“Often, she would talk about her former life,” the Maia added, and Fëanor’s spirit flickers in delight. “How she had met your father; their wedding. She loves you dearly, Fëanáro. And she had often contemplated her lack of strength.”

Fëanor feels sadness wrap around his soul. “It is not fair.”

The Maia sighs. “I never said it was. Sometimes, she bade us to go to Tirion just to catch a glimpse of you and tell her afterward how you fared.”

Fëanor is surprised. “And you were allowed to go?”

“Of course.” The Maia’s laughter is like music in Fëanor’s ears – pleasant and warm, joyful. “As long as we perform our duty, we are allowed to do whatever we want,” he says, then fumbling with something around his neck, revealing a silver pendant of twined leaves with an opal in its middle. “

Fëanor’s spirit leaps. “That is one of my early creations.”

“Your work has been quite popular among my people. Many of us have visited your workshop in Tirion.”

“I never knew.”

“How should you? We never revealed ourselves to anyone,” the Maia explains, letting his halo disappear for a moment. “I had another one: a matching pair of silver serpents to be worn around the wrist.”

All of Fëanor’s creations are unique items. “With sapphire eyes?”

“Exactly,” the Maia confirms, eyes sparkling upon the memory. “I gifted it to your mother the day she was released from the Halls of Awaiting when finally, she was graced with a body again.”

Fëanor feels like crying. Sudden dizziness overwhelms him and it is as if the Maia senses his unease. “Now come,” he says, not unkind. “Perhaps, it has been a little much for a first visit to the garden.”

Indeed, it has been. Fëanor is grateful regardless for the time spent with him. “Yes.”

Perhaps, he has misjudged Námo’s Maiar all the while. Their eyes aren’t lifeless, their laughter pure and joyful – and perhaps their existence truly serves a purpose.

* * *

Fëanor does not quite realize that something is changing deep inside him.

The time he spends with Námo’s Maiar increases by the week, shifting from what could be considered idle chatting towards more serious discussions. Fëanor shares memories from the past with them, reminiscent of better days, just as they explain their daily lives to him, their duty.

“Do you sometimes leave the halls?” he asks one day, a different Maia this time.

“Of course, I do. We all do from time to time before the first souls arrived more often than we do now,” the Maia explains, eyeing Fëanor closely. “Have you met one of us before?”

Fëanor’s soul sways forward. “That is what I think, yes. When I was banished from Tirion and my father’s court I went to Formenos. There, in the surrounding woods, I met someone I assumed was one of your kind.” 

Sincere interest flitters across the Maia’s face. “Do you remember his name?”

Of course, he does. He still remembers the sensation of cold fingers trailing along his body; of nights spent in bliss in front of the crackling fire. “Aláriel he is called.”

“None of us is named like this,” the Maia says, thinking. “Not Nienna’s, nor Vairë’s. Perhaps, you’ve come across one of Irmo’s Maiar, then? But that would be odd. Formenos is so far away from the Gardens of Lórien and there are woods there, too. Regardless, some do take delight in hiding and revealing identities every once in a while. Did it serve a purpose, do you think?”

Fëanor’s soul coughs. “Never mind,” he says, unwilling to elaborate on the topic. “It’s long gone by, and I am dead anyway.”

*

Fëanor has grown strangely accustomed to his life in the halls by now. 

He is free to wander the corridors and halls by himself, is even allowed to step into the courtyard whenever he pleases, and only seldom the Maiar meet his inquiries with silence now. For that he’s grateful.

Every now and then, they are careless with their words and tell him what’s happening beneath the blue sky. Like this Fëanor had learned of Fingolfin’s journey across the Helcaraxë; so he had learned that now sun and moon hung up high into the sky, driven across it by two Maiar.

Fingolfin’s crossing of the Helcaraxë keeps Fëanor’s mind occupied for days.

_Why?_

_Why?_

No matter how often Fëanor asks himself, he doesn’t find an answer to that question, not after everything that had come to pass between them.

At first, he had assumed the Maiar use these little words to torment him but had then decided it’s not that. Some are simply more bored than others – and more talkative. But actually, they are all quite talkative. They have told him about the giant tapestry of Vairë, what it looks like and where it is located, protected by a massive colonnade.

Apart from the dungeon where Morgoth was once chained that’s the only place where’s he forbidden to venture. Naturally, it’s what intrigues Fëanor the most.

Sometimes, Fëanor’s curiosity even outweighs the repulsion he feels for the Lord of the Dead. Then, his soul sways into Námo’s grand hall where the Vala receives the arriving souls, towards one of the alcoves close to the mosaic of purple lilies. At first, Fëanor had been surprised that Námo both allows and ignores his presence, not even giving a single snide remark.

There he sits in the shadows and simply watches the arriving souls and listens to the Vala’s solemn voice, finding it strange that it somehow soothes his troubled mind. He had soon noticed that no other soul shines and glows like his own, something he doesn’t understand. Yes, he could ask – but in his pride, Fëanor never does. 

* * *

One day, Fëanor’s soul suddenly begins to vibrate.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to him – or why, only that it has never happened before. Not in life, not in death. He races down the corridor leading away from the cells towards the main hall as fast as he can, the vibration intensifying as he draws closer.

Fëanor perceives pain and anguish, so strong that it almost feels as if it is his own.

And then Fëanor sees. A glowing soul, unlike any other he has ever seen arriving is caught between the great gate and the threshold of purple lilies. The soul is shaking and leaping, flickering and jumping up and down in the same rhythm as pain beats inside Fëanor. Its torment must be endless.

Terror seizes him the moment he sees – and understands.

“Nelyafinwë!”

Fëanor can’t breathe. His soul aches, pounding in the rhythm of his son’s heart. He wishes to leap towards Maedhros’s soul, trying to reach out to it.

“He has not yet arrived,” Námo tells him, restraining Fëanor’s soul to move forward.

“What treachery is this?” Fëanor screams, shaking.

His son’s arms, his limbs, his stomach – it all appears damaged and broken to Fëanor, unwilling and unable to follow his mind’s command. The pain Fëanor perceives is unbearable, burning ferociously deep inside his soul, and it is as Maedhros’s piercing gaze rests upon him.

Accusing.

Judging.

_Pleading._

Fëanor’s soul spins around towards Námo. “How? Why?” he rasps, breathless and close to tears.

Námo regards him, unmoved. “Ask the question yourself and you might find an answer to it.”

_‘The Oath.’_

It’s as easy at that.

Fëanor’s soul is restless. In the land where it’s always darkness, he wishes he’d just die again.

_What has happened?_

Fëanor watches, numbed. War is but a game, the battlefield a wretched playground – but there hasn’t been a battle because otherwise many souls would keep pouring in.

It doesn’t happen – it’s Maedhros and only him.

_What has happened?_

Perhaps, Fëanor could ask Námo, and perhaps he might receive a cryptic answer, none of which he thinks would be helpful. Oddly enough, until now he had obeyed the few rules imposed on his soul, hadn’t even tried to go where he isn’t allowed to.

It’s time to change that.

Left, right, left again: Fëanor has long counted out the turnings within the labyrinth. He longs to touch the smooth walls of polished obsidian, let his fingers slip into the hollows time has formed into the stone. Right, a staircase upwards, left again. He knows exactly towards where that one stairway is leading to, what lies behind the iron gate at its end. Perhaps, if he squeezes his soul he might pass through its bars. Without looking back towards where Maedhros’s soul screams in anguish he leaves.

Finally left, right, then left again, up the stairs and further on, far away from both the cells and the great hall he has to go.

There’s no hesitation on Fëanor’s side; no lingering as his soul rushes through the Halls of Awaiting. He tries to squeeze through the bars, but the door simply springs open at the gentlest press.

Fëanor’s soul blinks in surprise – he’d never expected the gate to be open in the first place. He steps through it, swaying towards the beautifully crafted colonnade the great tapestry is supposed to hang.

His soul stares at it in awe.

_Mother._

_Father._

His eyes fall on his father’s wedding with his mother, something he has never seen before with his own eyes.

His birth. Melkor’s treachery. The flight of the Noldor. Fingolfin’s crossing of the Helcaraxë – Fëanor couldn’t believe that Fingolfin truly has crossed the ice to follow him. Yes, he had heard so before but seeing it with his spirit is another matter entirely.

The further he gets, the faster his soul scans the tapestry until he comes to its very end, where he stops, frozen.

The image is cursed.

_No!_

Maedhros is chained to the dreadful tower of Thangorodrim by his right arm, an iron manacle clutching tightly to his wrist. Pain knots in Fëanor’s spirit, tightening and burning, fey laughter echoing in his mind as if it’s Morgoth’s own. Fëanor’s soul screams and he’s certain the Halls of Awaiting shake from the intensity of it.

The pain is tightening as his eyes move on, burning up Fëanor’s soul until he feels like retching. Bruises spread over Maedhros’s chest and arms, dark and angry welts of torture; his head hangs heavily against his chest, hair caked by dried blood.

“I told you not to trespass – and I told you so for a reason.”

Fëanor jumps at the sudden sound. He had not heard anyone coming

“It’s a lie,” Fëanor says, then repeats it as if to convince himself. “It’s a lie. A lie, a lie.”

Námo raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

They both know the answer.

“I wish it was,” Námo tells him and Fëanor is startled by the sonorous sound of it. “But as a matter of fact, it is not - it’s the first bitter consequence of your Oath.”

Faintly, the Oath he once had so passionately sworn stirs in Fëanor’s spirit again: _‘Death we will deal him ere Day’s ending, Woe unto world’s end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness.’_

His voice rings passionate in his ear; he’d been convinced to do what he deemed right back then – but had it been? Of that now he’s not so certain anymore.

Fëanor holds Námo’s gaze. “This is wretched madness... Why not ... why not simply kill him?”

Fëanor sees hesitation on Námo’s face, immediately wondering why. “What Melkor does is make an example, visible for everyone who comes close enough to see.”

Despair reigns Fëanor’s heart. “It’s cruel.”

“I know it is,” Námo says.

Fëanor is at a loss of what to reply, weeping.

It’s as if Námo senses Fëanor’s conflict. “If you wish to speak you know where to find me.”

And then Fëanor is alone, apparently allowed to view the tapestries. He takes his time to admire the work of art, reflects on events that happened so long ago – the creation of the Silmarils, the Two Trees, his own wedding, the birth of his sons, anything to quench the unbearable pain he feels.

That night, for the first time, Fëanor’s soul truly weeps without the tears ever running dry. He doesn’t sleep, shivering whilst his mind falls between hazy memories of the past and the ugliness of the present. Screams mix into his memories, images of iron bars and fire. All Fëanor wants to do is to hold his son close, wipe the sweat from his brow and clutch him to his chest until Maedhros falls into a healing slumber. He’s granted none of it: Maedhros’s sleep is restless, his body writhing in pain.

There’s no comfort for Maedhros’s tormented soul,

hope even less.

Day after day, he comes to watch Maedhros’s soul in the great hall, and night after night, he weeps, his spirit recalling the image of his own son chained to the dark tower of Thangorodrim, rotting under the assault of the sun.

Sometimes, Fëanor thinks he feels the metal burn his son’s wrist as if a thousand needles pierce the skin and Fëanor can’t help but wonder what malice Morgoth has woven into it.

He had once vowed to keep his silence, but he needs answers to the questions burning on his mind. And so Fëanor’s soul sways once more before Námo’s throne.

Fëanor looks down to the floor. “When … as his soul arrived,” he carefully ventures. His voice, usually so confident comes out as little more than a shaky breath. “It appeared broken, his body dehydrated and starved – or at least that is what I perceived.”

Pain flashes across Námo’s features. “You are correct.”

Fëanor knows what might have happened before and he’s glad that Námo does not elaborate on the matter. “Then why did I never perceive my son’s suffering?”

Námo sighs. “Because his body was locked in a place where dark magic prevents the interactions of the soul. It’s woven directly into the stone, so that no thought, no suffering finds its way out.”

“But you knew!” Fëanor cries, tears welling in his soul again.

Námo shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, I did not. Not until the day your son was chained to Thangorodrim… and his soul was once more free again.”

Cold terror sizes Fëanor all of a sudden. “The rest, what about the rest of my sons?”

“They aren’t there,” Námo states.

Fëanor’s spirit flickers uncontrolled. “Are you certain?”

Námo nods. “Yes.”

Fëanor doesn’t believe a word. “How would you know?”

Námo stretches out his hand and Fëanor flinches like a frightened dog. “I do not intend to hurt you. I merely offer you a chance to perceive their fëas yourself, with my help.”

_Help._

The word rings in Fëanor’s mind. Out of everyone, Námo is the one of whom he expects to help the least.

In the end, curiosity wins over hesitation.

Fëanor’s soul sways forward until it rests in the palm of Námo’s hand, surprised that instead of coldness he perceives immediate warmth. There are Curufin and Caranthir, arguing with each other with Maglor standing by. Amras is sobbing, being offered comfort by Celegorm.

And then there’s darkness in his mind again the moment Námo lets go of him. “I wasn’t lying.”

“No.”

Days and weeks go by and still Maedhros’s soul lingers between life and death, and day after day Fëanor comes to the great hall and sits close to the threshold that separates the truly dead from those at the verge of death, beginning to contemplate the decision he had made. He does so in silence, surprised that not once anyone disturbs his grief for Maedhros. Often, Námo is present in the hall, sitting in his throne, talking to his Maiar whenever they come to him.

“You make progress,“ Námo remarks one day when they are alone.

Fëanor feels remorse. “I... “

Námo cut him off. “Sometimes, you do not have to say anything at all, just accept what is said to you?”

Fëanor has been told so before.

He feels his soul nodding, realizing for the first time that the silence of the halls indeed offers him comfort, leaves him time to think. He withdraws his attention from Námo, looking back at Maedhros’s tormented soul.

Námo raises from his throne, walking towards where Fëanor’s soul lingers. He sits down on the carven stone of the alcove, next to Fëanor, keeping a polite distance for which Fëanor is grateful.

“Why isn’t he dying?” Fëanor sobs.

Death would be the kinder fate.

“Because he’s not allowed to,” Námo says, looking at Maedhros’s soul.

“Why is nobody helping him?” Fëanor wails in despair.

Námo sighs. “The answer to that question you know yourself.”

Fëanor casts his eyes to the floor. Yes. He knows. And still he wishes he doesn’t. “Because …,” he can’t bring himself to say it out loud, shaking.

Although Fëanor would never come close to admit it, not being left alone in his despair feels comforting, even if it means accepting the company of the Lord of the Dead.

So it goes on for many weeks.

Fëanor keeps his silence.

And so does Námo.

And yet to Fëanor, it is as if he perceives the Vala’s thoughts brushing against his soul ever so faintly. Of course, he wonders if Námo feels anything in return but he can’t bring himself to ask.

Instead, he watches his son’s soul suddenly swaying towards the threshold. A sudden wave of agony rips across Fëanor’s soul. He spins towards Námo, then back at Maedhros’s spirit who is on the very verge of death. His breath quickens, and he feels – actually feels – his non-existing arms and limbs pulled apart by cold claws.

“Why?” Fëanor screams. “What?”

A new wave of pain sings along Fëanor’s nerves and cruel laughter echoes in his dead ears; upon that he wails and weeps, hoping that his son’s torment is finally allowed to end.

“I do not know.” Námo sounds apologetic, stretching out his arm towards Fëanor’s soul.

This time, Fëanor doesn’t flinch from Námo’s hand but sways towards it until he rests in his palm, surprised by the warmth he feels. Soon after, his spirit rests in Námo’s lap, engulfed by boney fingers in a way that reminds him of the black cat he had as a child – the one he had loved to cradle in his lap. The way the Vala’s fingers move against him is warm and comforting, in a way Fëanor had never thought it possible, and indeed the pain diminishes. It is almost as if his own discomfort is transferred to Námo, or at least that’s how Fëanor perceives it. 

Fëanor is taken aback. “I never knew.”

“You never asked.”

“You never offered.”

“Knowing you’d reject it.”

Fëanor’s gaze flickers upwards, catching the Vala’s knowing smile. He can’t deny the truth of it.

It goes on like this for days, until Maedhros’s soul slowly withdraws from the line of lilies again.

*

Fëanor can’t breathe. All air is knocked out of him as the light around him becomes hideously bright, assaulting his remaining senses. His soul topples and he falls to the ground before everything goes black around him. When he regains consciousness again, his gaze falls on his hands, calloused from many fights, then on his bare feet. His skin appears to be paler than it has ever been before, glowing strangely at its edges.

 _‘What? How? What treachery?’_ it races through his mind before he dares to lift his gaze towards Námo, scrambling to his feet. His legs are shaking, weak from too many years of disuse.

Regardless, Fëanor takes a few steps forward until he stands right before Námo’s throne.

Whilst being a houseless spirit, Fëanor had never realized how small – and perhaps meaningless he is in comparison.

Fëanor looks at Námo in confusion, head tilted to the side. “How?”

“By my will alone,” Námo says, leaning forward as if to catch Fëanor’s swaying body if he should fall.

“But why?” Fëanor asks, narrowing his eyes.

“To ease your suffering.”

Fëanor stares, abashed, taken off guard by the compassion he sees in Námo’s eyes. “But had your own words not been –?”

Námo cut him off. “I know what I have once said. And equally, I have heard your sobs of grief and despair all these nights. I would have offered you my comfort –but you would have rejected it.”

Something warm and surprisingly soft settles on Fëanor’s shoulders. Námo’s bony fingers aren’t icy cold as Fëanor had suspected them to be. He’s tempted to shrug, for he has forgotten how it feels to be touched at all. Fëanor corrects himself: how good it feels. It’s surprising; it’s startling, but it’s true that the firm grip offers him comfort in a way he had never thought.

Fëanor frowns.

It’s true – he would have rejected everyone and everything. His stance upon arrival had been a quite specific one: to add insult to injury, heart hardened and reigned by the injustice he had felt all his life.

To Fëanor it is as if he is defying everything he had ever believed in.

_‘I’ll never serve you jealous gods!’_

Just that it appears to be the other way round.

The jealous gods serve him.

Fëanor doesn’t comprehend.

His body aches where once Gothmog’s whip had cut through his flesh, right there where now Námo’s hands lie.

_‘Gods must be appeased; or they are to be feared. Their love is envy.’_

For the first time in his life, Fëanor doubts it. He is at a loss of what to say, staring out into the gloomy twilight. What if every shift of muscle serves as a reminder of everything he’d lost? Another form of punishment, veiled in kindness? Fëanor is almost certain it must be so. He looks across his shoulder, searching on Námo’s face for anything that would betray his true motives, but he finds none.

“Come. I want to show you something.”

Fëanor narrows his eyes, still suspicious as ever. “And that is what?” he snaps, masking curiosity and vulnerability with irritated bitterness.

“Your mistrust is quite flattering,” Námo laughs. “You’ve seen the sun – but you have never seen the beauty of it rising.”

It’s true – he hadn’t even known it rose.

Fëanor walks with Námo silently, his eyes cast downwards, but every once in a while, he reaches out to touch the shimmering obsidian of the passageways as he had desired for so long.

It is cold outside on the balustrade on which he’s never been standing on before, his breath forming clouds, but he does not feel the chill as he used to whilst alive.

In the coldest of nights, the stars burn the brightest – Fëanor still remembers that, and it’s true.

He stares out at thousands of stars littering the night sky, which oddly enough is blue instead of black. Fëanor looks at Námo, then back at the sky again, gasping. It looks like the banner of Fingolfin, the one Fëanor has seen on the tapestry – silver stars on a blue ground, depicting the splendor of the sky.

But how had Fingolfin known?

The sky keeps transforming. Fëanor blinks, then rubs his eyes, both in tiredness and disbelief. Pink and orange arise on the horizon, chasing away the last remains of blue until the first rays of a golden sun frame his face.

The colors remind him of the filtered light in the Halls of Awaiting; similar but far more beautiful. Fëanor turns towards Námo, surprised how the light softens the corner of his eyes and his mouth. Quickly, Fëanor’s gaze flitted back to the rich colors of the sky, wondering about Námo’s true motives.

It is as if Námo reads his mind. “Why should I forbid you the comfort you crave?” he asks, not unkind.

Fëanor does not have an answer to that.

“Why should I forbid you to know that at least from this your son can draw a little comfort?”

He has an answer to that even less, tears welling in his eyes and a vague ill-feeling begins to spread through his stomach. Through blurred vision, he sees how Námo turns to face him, stepping closer to him with outstretched arms.

In spite of himself, Fëanor finds himself accepting the embrace, hesitant with his arms pressed against his chest. And then he weeps with his face buried against Námo’s chest, exhaustion and grief finally overwhelming him. His face is wet, tears clinging to his lashes, and staining Námo’s robes and hair. He doesn’t care, can’t himself to care anymore. A faint pressure settles against the top of his head, reminding him of the days when his father used to kiss his forehead before he told him good-night.

“Don’t question your decisions, not this one at least,” Námo says quietly, his voice a bare murmur against Fëanor’s hair, whilst his arms tighten around him.

Fëanor’s heart is pounding too hard against his ribs, having long forgotten the importance and beauty of physical comfort in the endless darkness. And although he finds it odd, that the one who he had cursed so often, should grant him it – yet, for once he doesn’t question it, and simply accepts, trying to ignore the way his eyes are stinging from his tears. It feels good, apart from the sudden ache of melancholy in his chest – and for once that’s all that matters. He can feel the Vala’s heartbeat through the fabric of his robes, surprised that the Gods had something so ordinary like this.

“I think…,” Fëanor begins, his voice shaking as he struggles to find the words for what seems overdue to be said. “I… I perhaps... should just thank you.” Grief and misery choke further words, and despair for Maedhros takes their place fully.

Námo remains silent, but Fëanor feels his finger cradled against the back of his head, trembling slightly. He’s tired, so very tired and, odd as it might be, in Námo’s arms he truly finds peace and rest for the first time in ages.

The sun has long fully risen and yet they stay there, like this, breath falling into synchronization until no tears fall from Fëanor’s eyes anymore.

*


	6. The Dividing Mark

*

The encounter has Fëanor thinking for many days – once he’s awake again. Back into his room, he had fallen into a sleep that had lasted for days, or so the Maiar tell him. It’s unsurprising. Since the arrival of Maedhros’s soul to the Hall of Transition, Fëanor’s soul had been troubled, and he had not truly found rest.

Walking through the twilit corridors towards the great hall on bare feet, Fëanor is thinking about the encounter yet again. He had not expected to receive any kindness from the Valar’s hands after being exiled with bitter words, from Námo least of all – and yet: even now, he can’t help himself to think with fondness of the embrace they had shared, astonished that his spirit isn’t houseless any longer. He had almost been certain that he would be robbed of his body again. Amidst the memory of crying in Námo’s arms, suspicion begins to simmer.

_Why?_

Accepting things as they are has never been in Fëanor’s nature.

_A trick._

_But why?_

Fëanor does not find an answer to the question, at least none that meets his standards and over it he gets frustrated.

He’s dead – there’s no plot, no greater scheme involved in how he’s treated. The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, entirely indifferent to whatever he does. His existence has faded to nothingness; he simply does not matter anymore.

From that painful realization his thoughts go astray, and for the first time, Fëanor begins to question the choices he had made when alive.

He’d been full of disdain, full of contempt, and full of loathing whenever he was confronted the Valar after being sent into exile for the first time. In fact, he’d been full of so many things: not a single one of them being love. And he had been certain, the Valar regarded him with equal loathing.

The days in the halls are too long, too dark and yet at the same time too bright; he’s waiting for a new dawn of his life that never comes, being sentenced to spend all the ages in the night of the timeless halls, and perhaps, it’s for the benefit of all?

Amidst his thoughts he sees himself, standing and raising the blade in his hand. And although not with the sword but with words sharper than the blade he parries, and dodges, and thrusts, and then the scene seamlessly melts into another. This time he sees the fiery chasm of a volcano, spitting lava and poisonous fumes, quenched by a giant wave so that only dark smoke remains.

_Morgoth!_

It only can be Morgoth’s work.

Fëanor balls his hands into fists, cursing Morgoth again in the wretched silence, and then he feels like crying yet again.

*

Fëanor is surprised to find Námo’s hall empty – and it remains empty for days, as if Námo avoids his presence, just as much as Fëanor himself has avoided Námo all these years. Now, that has changed. Although he does not exactly crave the Vala’s company, certainly his stance has shifted – from loathing towards indifference to something Fëanor fails to name.

Being condemned to watch Maedhros’s soul in torment alone after days of company is torture in itself.

“Maitimo,” he then whispers, knowing well, that Maedhros won’t hear him. “I… I am sorry.”

_‘Father, look!.’_

Fëanor can almost hear Maedhros’s laughter as a child, staring at the afterimages his mind constructs. 

Bits and pieces of his memories flitters through his mind – Curufin forging his first blade at the age of twenty; Caranthir’s obsession with numbers, manifesting itself on endless scrolls of parchment; Celegorm’s calloused hand, still stained with blood from the hunt at the dinner table; and above all, it’s Maedhros he sees: Maedhros, teaching the twins archery; Maedhros taking care of Maglor’s first break of heart –

Maedhros standing aside when the ships were set ablaze. Fëanor had been furious back then, and equally furious Maedhros had lashed out. His son had known well how much his own father had despised him in that very moment, had certainly seen it in his eyes. Fëanor is convinced that Maedhros must have thought often at this during all the years he has been chained to Thangorodrim.

“I am sorry, for everything,” Fëanor says again, burying his face in his hands, feeling more miserable than he had in years.

*

There are no mirrors in the Halls of Awaiting, not even shards of glass. Still, Fëanor’s urge to see himself prevails. He remembers the fountains in the courtyard, enframed by colonnades from either side, of which one feeds a small pond. Sometimes, if the wind is still it is graced with an almost even surface.

As Fëanor rushes to the pool, snowflakes are sailing down from the bleak sky. He had thought that, perhaps, with the return of his body he’d be gifted with more senses again, but in that he’s mistaken – he can’t smell the trees, nor the freshness of the snow.

He steps closer towards the pond and in the reflection of the water for the first time he sees himself, realizing that indeed the edges of his face and limbs are glowing faintly. It looks as if the snow is blown through the ghostly image of his own face, dancing and he finds himself staring at his reflection.

He lifts his index finger to his face, tracing the scar the Balrog’s attack has left behind. It runs along his cheek, from ear to mouth, partly covered by thick black curls, uneven to his touch.

Then, he pushes his robe a little to the side so that he catches sight of his upper chest and collarbone – a massive scar splits the skin in two there. That had been the fatal blow. The pain, brief and sharp, had been nothing in comparison to what Maedhros has to endure – for years. Apart from the scars, he looks as he used to – the same eyes, now watery again, the same smile. Even his clothes are similar to what he had loved to wear on ordinary days. It strikes him odd – how would Námo know what he used to wear?

Fëanor almost tumbles over as the sound of flapping wings races through the sky above him. He only catches a glimpse of massive white wings, before the creature is gone from his field of view. Whilst residing in Tirion he has seen many eagles roam the sky but he has never seen one with wings white as fresh snow.

Naturally, Fëanor is intrigued.

He rushes through the twilit halls and corridors, looks here and there unsuccessfully, until he hears voices from where the giant tapestry hangs. The iron gate stands open. Fëanor slips past it, pressing himself against one of the pillars of the colonnade.

Only when his breath has calmed down, he dares a glimpse, hoping he’s close enough to overhear their conversation. Eavesdropping has become much harder since he has a body again, much to his dismay.

“Brother,” Irmo says with a blinding smile, Fëanor observes. “It has been a while since last you have summoned me to your halls.”

Námo returns the friendly gesture. “It has been unnecessary.”

Fëanor tries to edge closer to get a better view. Despite having been a regular guest in the Gardens of Lórien, not once had he lain eyes upon its keeper – at least not in his true form, as he sees him now, with white wings and a crown of poppies framing his face.

“And now you deem it necessary?” Irmo asks, watching the tapestries.

Námo nods. “Yes.”

“Care to elaborate why?”

It’s mesmerizing to watch them interact.

Apart from the wings, they look like a mirror image of each other. The same glowing purple eyes, the same curve of eyebrows; boney hands and ornate rings, and yet they are different as night and day. Whilst around Námo an aura of darkness wafts, Irmo looks like the brightest dawn.

Below Fëanor’s fascination, resentment begins to simmer.

Fëanor – and all others who had followed him into exile, had not dreamed since the day of Námo’s prophecy. ‘ _and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out.’_ – he had not understood the true meaning of the words back then, but soon they had discovered that the Path of Dreams was shut, no matter how hard they tried to walk it. The Lord of Dreams had forsaken them, just like everyone else of the Gods. (x)

Their slumber had become bleak, and lifeless. Without doubt, sometimes dreams had been difficult and confusing; often enough despite just being fleeting figments of surreality, their beauty kept lingering for days, but that had become painful memory.

The Land of Dreams is said to lie below a field of poppies; that the Lord of Dreams wears a flower crown upon his head – Fëanor had heard that a few times, but has always failed to make the connection before. As a child, he had played in a field of poppies in the Gardens of Lórien, which is restricted by two gates at either side. To him, it just had been another field of flowers – beautiful, but meaningless. And then, when he had been told about the Land of Dreams by his tutor, he had long forgotten about the field of poppies. He had played in a field of exactly these flowers, being restricted by two different gates, long before he’d been told the above. 

_Eternal sleep._

_Oblivion._

It suddenly dawns on him.

_Death._

That’s what the blood-red flowers symbolize.

_But how should oblivion be found in death?_

_One excludes the other?_

_What if it did not?_

He had never understood how entwined dreams and death have become.

Fëanor’s thoughts are interrupted as Námo speaks again.

“Because,” Námo begins, pointing towards an image on the tapestry. “It is hard to be confronted with the torment of a single soul for so many years. The pain, the anguish, the misery this cruelty of Melkor has brought, and brings. Granting his tormented soul a few hours of bliss won’t bring harm, don’t you think?”

“No. I am merely surprised,” Irmo states, his voice echoing through the colonnade like a melodious song. “Have not your exact words been ‘ _and shut you out_ ’?”

“They have been, yes,” Námo affirms, and for once his face isn’t impassive. To Fëanor it is as if for a second he sees annoyance on Námo’s face. “And I still won’t suggest lifting the ban, except …”

“Except for that poor soul?”

“Yes.”

Fëanor fails to read Irmo’s smile. “Certainly, I am not mistaken to assume that the fact that it is Fëanáro’s son has nothing to do with it.”

Námo gives his brother a stare, of the sort that had made Fëanor flinch in the past. “Obviously, not. The suffering I perceive for years now is grave. Melkor and his minions have left their mark on him forever. His trauma is worse than anything an Eldar has ever endured – given he survives.”

“Dreams offer a certain sanctuary for those caught in bitter days, it’s true,” Irmo says, closing his eyes and Fëanor wonders if it’s a vision Irmo receives. He’s tempted to forsake his hiding place to ask. “You know what you suggest can easily be interpreted as defiance towards our King, undermining his rule.”

Fëanor sees the malicious glitter in Námo’s eyes, followed by a shrug of indifference. Fëanor’s mouth drops open. “Yes.”

 _Why?_ Fëanor doesn’t understand what he sees.

Irmo raises an eyebrow but remains otherwise silent, waiting for Námo to go on.

“You’ve always been good at veiling who you reach out to,” Námo states. “Let me remind you of the tricks you played on several attendees of the King’s council. So I am confident you’ll manage this time.”

Irmo sighs, but agrees. “So be it.”

The conversation drifts towards a topic Fëanor isn’t remotely interested in. He takes his leave in silence and returns to the shadowed alcove to watch his son’s soul sway, trying to decipher what he has seen and heard between the lines spoken.

That night, Maedhros’s soul for once isn’t weeping – and for that, Fëanor weeps in return. out of joy, and relief, and gratitude, to an extent he can’t even understand. He’s alone, so nobody sees how the tears run down his cheeks, and cling to his lashes, and how he wipes them off with the end of his sleeve. They’ve kept true to what they have promised.

When day comes, Maedhros’s cries of anguish pierce Fëanor’s soul again, the sun drowning out the twilit world of dreams. From his son’s state of mind he knows what time of the day it is – day, night – day, night – and like this it goes on for days until he is at the verge of exhaustion.

“Fëanáro,” a voice says, tugging him at the arm. “Fëanáro!”

Fëanor blinks, watching into the worried face of the Maia he’d spent much time with. At one point, he must have fallen asleep in the alcove, overwhelmed by tiredness.

“You shouldn’t be sleeping here,” the Maia says.

Fëanor’s mouth still feels salty from the tears previously shed. “I must watch him.”

“You’ve watched him for years.”

It’s the polite way to say that he can’t help, no matter what he does, of that Fëanor is painfully aware.

“I know,” Fëanor replies, much weaker than he had hoped for, simply allowing himself to be led away into his room, where he immediately drifts into a dreamless slumber.

*

“No!” Roused by his own cry of anguish, and the image of Maedhros’s tormented face, he starts up out of his sleep. Fëanor feels wrecked, pinching his skin hard enough to bruise to lessen the pain he suddenly feels. It’s like a persisting stab to his heart, intense, and dreadful. Gushing blood veils Maedhros’s face and the pain in Fëanor’s guts twists and snarls.

“Nelyafinwë!”

“No!”

Fëanor is certain his cry of anguish, ugly and sharp, shakes the Halls of Awaiting to its core. It hurts, and it persists, and it doesn’t stop, no matter how hard Fëanor pinches his skin to divert the pain. Maedhros’s suffering has become a constant in his mind, but this – this is different to anything he has ever perceived.

Fëanor rushes into the great hall, where Námo seems to await him.

“What …?” he manages to choke out despite pain and worry making his tongue heavy as lead. “What’s this?”

Námo regards him, then rises from his throne, far too slowly for Fëanor’s liking. “Come.”

“Where to?” Fëanor asks, falling into step with Námo even before he has received an answer.

“The tapestries.”

Fëanor narrows his eyes, glaring. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to go?”

“What I told you is that you are not allowed to go by yourself. If you had asked …”

On any other time, Fëanor would have lashed out upon the injustice he suddenly feels. “Why? Why do you want to show me the tapestries?” he asks, struggling to keep pace with Námo’s strides.

Námo halts, turning towards Fëanor. “Because you still don’t trust my words.”

Fëanor can’t deny he wouldn’t trust what Námo told him, opening his mouth, then closing it again, averting his gaze.

“Spare yourself the words,” Námo tells him, setting off again.

They fall silent after that until Námo opens the gate that fences the tapestries. “The pain you feel is caused by your son’s rescue,” Námo says, pointing towards the end of tapestry.

“Rescue?” Fëanor stares, at Námo first, then at the tapestry.

He takes a step towards it, looking at an entire sequence of images.

At Fingon, aiming the arrow with the feathered shaft; at the image of Fingon flying on an eagle’s back towards the looming towers of Thangorodrim; of Fingon, how he cuts off Maedhros’s hand from the iron manacles, both their faces twisted into a grimace from the pain.

Fëanor shivers, from head to toe, his mind failing to process what he sees.

“He lives?” Fëanor can’t believe it.

Námo nods. “He does, and is currently taken care of by your brother.”

“Ñolofinwë?” Fëanor asks in disbelief.

“As far as I am aware of, Arafinwë hasn’t come to Beleriand.” Námo says. “So yes, Ñolofinwë is taking care of your first-born son. The brother you once threatened with a blade, remember?”

_Yes._

Silence falls, then Námo says. “I wonder if you would do the same.”

_Would he?_

He doesn’t know, isn’t certain – and that makes him so ashamed that it’s too much to bear. Everything is too much to bear. Fëanor is weeping, shaking, burying his face in his hand.

He wants to be alone, and then he doesn’t want to be left alone in all his wretched misery, afraid of what the darkness would whisper to him, yet he can’t bring himself to ask for company, afraid of the rejection he might receive. Even dead, pride and internalized fears remain

*

The next couple of days Fëanor keeps to his own room.

What he saw on the tapestries keeps Fëanor’s soul occupied for many days. Fingon could never have rescued Maedhros without the help of the great eagle, those creatures who only obey the command of one person. Fëanor still fails to grasp the plain truth of it – haven’t the Valar forsaken all those who followed him into exile, those who have stained the Blessed Realm with blood at Alqualondë beach?

There’s no love,

no hope,

no kindness –

Not for those who turned their backs on the blissful life in Aman.

Or is there still?

The help of the eagle implies as much, as does Námo’s embrace, and Irmo’s dreams.

_Why?_

The questions in Fëanor’s mind become repetitive again. And just as he reaches the end of his thoughts, the cycle starts again.

*

Maedhros’s captivity is the dividing mark for Fëanor in the Halls of Awaiting. There’s no in-between, only before and after.

The next morning, when Fëanor returns to the great hall, Maedhros is still at the verge of death.

“I am sorry, for everything,” Fëanor repeats what he has already said before, because in fact, there has been much he has disapproved of. Maedhros’s deep friendship with Fingon had always bothered him, to an extend that he had even actively tried to forbid it.

 _‘Why are you following me?’_ Maedhros’s words of accusation echo through Fëanor’s mind, accompanied by glaring eyes.

Maedhros has been right – in so many things. The prevailing friendship with Fingon, despite all odds had rescued him from Morgoth’s claw.

His son is still suffering, but each night, the wailing noises of his soul subsides almost magically. Be it day and night, Fëanor sits in his alcove and watches Maedhros’s soul slowly withdrawing from the Hall of Transition. Sometimes, he’s alone, sometimes, he’s not – whenever Námo decides to keep him company in the kind of silence Fëanor has come to accept and cherish.

It almost feels wrong to break it. Fëanor’s tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, as he rolls the words back and forth.

“I … thank you,” he forces out one day after long hours of consideration, eyes still directed at Maedhros’s soul.

“Should I feel humbled?” Námo asks, not unkind. “I assume I should.”

Fëanor slowly turns, looking at Námo, surprised to see a faint smile on the Vala’s face. “I… don’t know.”

What he knows, however, is that deep inside he wished to be held again, as he had been in the courtyard. But he can’t bring himself to say so.

“You are tired, Fëanáro,” Námo remarks after a while. “You can’t help him by sitting on the carven stone. He’ll survive. Each day, his soul withdraws a little more from his state between living and death. He is healing, physically at least, and you know that as well as I.”

There’s no malice in Námo’s words, no malice or cruelty in the way he had treated Fëanor the past days, months – years.

Strange as it may be, each deed speaks of kindness, of a kind Fëanor had never expected to receive, accompanied by a strange sense of rightness. All the while it had been there, but in his anger he has been to blind to see.

Now, it’s understanding; it’s realization, but it is acceptance most of all.

“Yes,” Fëanor says, then takes his leave, with enough thoughts to occupy his mind for weeks.

*

Everything Námo has said is true.

Slowly, the pain Fëanor perceives lessens from what he assumes that Maedhros recovers. Saved by Fingon, his half-brother’s eldest son, who dared what all his own sons did not. And although love had always been strong between Fingon and Maedhros, Fingon harbored little love for Fëanor himself. Yet if he could, he would thank Fingon and Fingolfin a thousand times.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (x) based on the meta ["On the Noldorin Exiles and Dreams"](https://feanope.tumblr.com/post/172352968120/on-the-noldorin-exiles-and-dreams-whilst-looking) I once wrote on tumblr, based on a magnificent piece of art that instantly reminded me of Maedhros & Irmo.  
> Sadly, the art linked in the original tumblr post is a victim of the nsfw ban of 2018 and got hence deleted, but I managed to find it again: [Ancient Lovers](https://www.pinterest.de/pin/234257618101160818/)


	7. Love Knows No Virtue

*

Fëanor spends the next few days as always, wandering the twilight halls.

Sometimes, he walks with one of Námo’s Maiar, but most of the time he keeps to himself, accompanied only by his never-ending thoughts.

Today is little different. He goes here and there, idly chatting to the Maia he likes best for a while, until he’s left alone again. Everything in the Halls of Awaiting, apart from the dark stone and the twilight, seems such a terrible fleeting affair. And just as he thinks that, he stumbles across a door, which looks as if it’s hewn directly into the stone.

He has passed this corridor a thousand times, but that door – it had never been there before. Or…? Fëanor wrinkles his nose. Perhaps, he could have missed the door itself, the golden knob, however, is a different matter. He would have noticed that immediately, of that he’s certain.

He eyes the door for a moment, considering, when in truth he has made his decision. He’s intrigued what lies behind it. Fëanor raises his hand to the door knob, turning it. Much to his surprise, it creaks open. He steps inside, closing the door silently after him.

The torches on the wall guide Fëanor through a narrow corridor, its polished obsidian streaked with gold. That strikes Fëanor as odd. No matter where in the halls, the stone of the walls is always black – and only that.

He halts, caution rising.

Does this corridor lead to a stairway bringing him down to the vaults where once Morgoth was chained? He’s not allowed to go there, not that he wants to – yet even as he thinks it, he’s convinced it’s not that. Morgoth deserves the company of pitch-black darkness, not gold-streaked obsidian, rare and precious.

He draws in a deep breath, continuing along the corridor on bare feet.

Fëanor hears the voice before he sees anything.

“Welcome.”

“Welcome.”

The light at the end of the corridor gets brighter with every step Fëanor takes. Deep inside, he knows that he should turn around, but he can’t resist temptation. He never could.

The corridor comes to an end, spilling Fëanor into a sea of molten gold. The brightness assaults his senses. He is blinded, being so used to the dim light of the halls now. There’s nothing twilight about the room; nothing dark – it’s painted in a gold and orange glow by candles, torches and fire bowls, like a beacon in the darkness of a kingdom without light.

When his eyes have adjusted to the brightness, Fëanor finally sees Námo resting on an elevated area right in front of him, spread out across a day bed, reading. The bed is framed by curtains of gauze and damask of black and silver that are stirred by the tiniest movement of the air.

By now, he’s seen Námo a hundred times, yet now it feels as if he sees him for the first time, as if he’s awaking from eternal haze. Námo’s hair is slightly curlier than usual, cascading down his bare shoulders like a waterfall of molten silver, shimmering in the soft glow of the candles. The light of the flames catches in his hair, reflects in the countless jewels that adorn his neck, his arms and fingers, gems wrought in gold and silver. Jewels ornament his brow in a dazzling arc of stars, perfectly matching the halo above his head. The usual crown is missing, as is all other regal attire. Instead of formal robes, he wears loose trousers, all black with a massive golden belt, and a tunic that doesn’t even deserve the name. The black fabric is unbuttoned, sliding down low on the Vala’s shoulders. Námo puts the book aside, attention fixed on Fëanor fully now.

Fëanor catches himself staring, but doesn’t look away. He’d not expected that the Vala’s body would be all strong and sinewy muscle, as if trained to excellence in combat. Necklaces of different lengths dangle across his chest, some with ornaments attached, some without, whilst another set of silver chains spans vertically across his muscular chest. Although Fëanor would never say it, Námo is glorious to look at.

“Well met, Fëanáro,” Námo says, watching him over the rim of his goblet.

The table in front of Námo is filled with fruits, apples, peas, and grapes, in golden bowls, two carafes – wine and water, and strange golden lamps Fëanor has never seen before. Instead of light, smoke spills forth from them. Most likely incense. He wouldn’t know, still unable to smell anything. 

“I… my apologies. I did not intend to interrupt.” Fëanor mumbles, surprised how easily the apology slips past his lips. He is still observing little details as his gaze catches them. Just like his own, the Vala’s feet are bare, and even there golden bands glitter.

Námo leans back against the cushions, black as the night. “You can hardly interrupt when you are invited,” he states, setting the goblet down on the table.

Fëanor tilts his head to the side. “I have not been invited?”

“Would you like to be?” Námo asks, letting a grape fall into his mouth.

Fëanor struggles to hold the Vala’s gaze, without having an answer to his question. Months ago, his answer would have been, No, and only that. But now…? 

“Such indecisiveness is strange for you,” Námo remarks with an amused smile before Fëanor can find his voice.

 _‘I could visit you.’_ The words echo in Fëanor’s mind.

It’s true. So he has once said, as a child. “I offered once to visit you – “

“I still remember.” Námo’s eyes fall close for a second, as if he’s recalling the event, before his gaze fixes on Fëanor again. “Ages have passed and finally you have come.”

“I have.” Fëanor takes a few steps closer, drawn towards Námo like a magnet, gravitating to him as if he has become the center of his narrow world. It’s unnatural, as if he’s only a puppet on a string. And although Fëanor is questioning his actions, he can’t find the heart to fight him. The suspicious voice in his mind bids him to run, but Fëanor isn’t running.

“Would you have received me like this?” Fëanor asks, taking his time to look Námo up and down. The attire, forsaking all rules of propriety is hardly fitting to receive anyone, except –

Fëanor’s breath catches in his throat.

“Well,” Námo laughs, in a way Fëanor has never heard it before. “Probably not.”

“These are your private quarters, aren’t they?” Fëanor states, bridging the distance until he stands before the dais. He’s holding Námo’s steady gaze with effort, astonished that suddenly streaks of gold appear in the Vala’s purple eyes.

“Yes.”

“You know ... it’s strange,” Fëanor carefully ventures with the last remains of caution. “I have passed this wall often before but the door has never been there.”

Námo waves his hand dismissively. “The door has been always there, but it was veiled by the anger that has reigned in your soul for years. Apparently, your rage has calmed, and its cloud dissipated. Simply speaking: you’ve been too blind to see it. Although you may suspect otherwise, there’s no magic involved; no trick.”

Fëanor feels his cheeks grow hot at having his emotions read like this. He has indeed suspected otherwise, perhaps still does. It doesn’t make him turn around though. 

Námo regards Fëanor, taking a sip from his goblet again. “What has brought you here?”

“Curiosity, most of all.”

Námo rubs his jaw. “The same curiosity that brought you to the tapestries?”

Fëanor nods. “Sort of, yes.”

He’s been curious all his life.

“Your presence honors me,” Námo says, amused.

Fëanor’s eyes widen. “I .. I have heard these words before from one of your kin.

It’s as if jealousy flashes across the Vala’s face for a split second. “Care to elaborate?” Námo asks, all amusement suddenly gone.

Fëanor doesn’t mind.

“During the celebrations of the Eldar’s journey into the Blessed Realm; the one during which Varda hallowed the Silmarils,” he states, remembering the day as if it was yesterday. “It was then that Manwë greeted me thus.” Memories of lingering glances through the crowd flash before Fëanor’s eyes; the Vala’s smile, the idle movements of his hands. What Fëanor also remembers but would never say, is how he’d been swayed by the unexpected attention. He has always strived towards the greatest creations; for what he should never possess. In the end, it had remained an all too wicked dream, gone once morning came.

Fëanor schools his features. “Why would you be interested?”

Námo shrugs. “Mere curiosity to confirm my assumptions.”

Fëanor narrows his eyes. Something tells him that there’s more to this than Námo is willing to admit. But what? “Assumptions? You were not there?”

The Vala’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “I was, and I heard the conversation you’ve just been hinting at.”

 _Jealousy._ At least it looks like that.

Nonsense! Fëanor thinks, not for the first time whilst residing in the Halls of Awaiting. He dismisses the thought immediately for its sheer ridiculousness, or so he tells himself.

A vague sense of unease begins to spread from his guts. Fëanor feels suddenly as if he’s standing at a crossroad of choices, defining his entire life in death. “I… I should go,” he says, fingers twitching against his thighs.

But Fëanor doesn’t leave, standing there now playing with his fingers as the silence seems to stretch into eternity.

“And yet you are still here,” Námo says, not unkindly, and Fëanor catches the challenge in his gaze. The Vala’s eyes have completely turned golden. “You will forgive me that I draw my own conclusion about this.”

Each day, each week, each year in the Halls of Awaiting has left its mark on Fëanor; each death, each silent accusation.

“Do you withdraw your invitation?” Fëanor says, equal challenge lingering in his eyes. He’s intrigued, perhaps has been since he had shed bitter tears in Námo’s arms. He’s been lonely; confined to an existence lacking in love and affection.

_You’ve always strived for what you should never possess._

It seems obvious now he’s not alone in that.. To the best of his knowledge, it’s never heard of before that a dalliance between one of the Eldar and the Gods has existed. And who is to deny Námo what he wants? Despite the shock of realization, a small smile tugs at the corner of Fëanor’s lips. Two can easily play at this game, and Fëanor’s experience surpasses Námo’s own by far.

“Oh not at all,” Námo says with a laugh. “Although you standing there … is a little awkward for an accepted invitation, don’t you think?”

Námo has several points. In truth, Fëanor has accepted the invitation the moment he had caught sight of Námo on the day bed; when he had not turned around on his heels; and the way he still stands in front of the stairs is odd at best.

Fëanor squares his shoulders, then allows the corners of his mouth to curve into the hint of a smile. Each step he takes is slow, and measured, eyes resting on Námo all the while.

Instead of speaking, he allows actions to speak. Without even awaiting to be offered a seat, Fëanor sits down on the day bed cross-legged, on the opposite end taking his time to observe the idle play of Námo’s fingers with the necklace.

Nervousness, so easily deciphered.

Námo raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Fëanor pours himself a glass of wine, ignoring Námo’s question. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No.” The fidgeting of Námo’s fingers continues.

“Good.” Fëanor says, drinking but mostly staring. “Really good. I haven’t had such good wine in years.”

Námo laughs, and for once the sound isn’t mirthless. “To the best of my knowledge you hadn’t had any wine in years.”

Fëanor smiles against the rim of his cup. “A pity.”

He sets it down, wondering how far the liberties he is permitted will go. He takes a few grapes from the golden bowl. It doesn’t even earn him a remark, and suddenly, the vague sense that indeed his liberties surpass his wildest imaginations settle. The way Námo holds himself, legs still stretched out across the bed, gaze open, speaks of an invitation of a different kind altogether – Fëanor would just need to bend forward to find out.

He snatches his hand away in the last moment.

What kind of fool has he become?

Fëanor settles for conversation, surprised how easy it has become to talk to Námo. Not so long ago, he couldn’t bring himself to speak a single word with the Vala, let alone talk in a friendly manner. And yet here they are, and to Fëanor it is as if they had known each other for years. They do, but not like this. There’s a strange closeness between them Fëanor lacks words to explain. Once, he would have questioned that; would have never let his true feelings show. For once he doesn’t take action, but waits. He allows delight to shine through, flashing inviting smiles every once in a while to provoke a reaction from Námo. Fëanor delights in the way his words make the Vala’s lips curve into a smile; the glitter it brings to Námo’s eyes. The conversation drifts towards the rebellion he had once stirred, blinded by unquenchable anger and lies whispered into his ears.

“Perhaps, I … was wrong,” Fëanor says, astonished by his choice of word.

Námo doesn’t allow him to dwell on it. “Perhaps half-wrong?” he offers with a smile, his golden eyes alight with mirth.

For the first time, Fëanor laughs, shaking his head in amusement. “I thought you hated me.”

Námo brings the cup to his lips, watching Fëanor. “I won’t deny that. I cursed you once, and I have cursed your impertinence frequently since you have been a guest in my halls.”

Fëanor has always been good at reading others, when he manages to be patient enough to observe. In the timeless void of the Halls of Awaiting he’s had all the time in the world. “And…?” he asks, edging closer towards the middle of the day bed, so that in the end he’s sitting between the Vala’s splayed legs.

Námo holds Fëanor’s questioning gaze. “And yet there’s a part of me that has always loved you.”

Fëanor’s shocked. By Námo’s words, by his very own thoughts, and that he’s not even moving away.

The statement lingers in the air, words rolling back and forth on Fëanor’s tongue.

“All my life, I’ve hated you…” His voice is nothing more than a whisper, as if he’s ashamed to confess it.

“And …?” Námo inquires.

Fëanor swallows, then sighs. “And yet there’s a part of me that doesn’t.”

“Truce?” Námo stretches out his hand towards Fëanor.

Fëanor hesitates a second, then accepts the hand. “Truce.”

It’s as if lightning surges through his veins at the touch; images from the past and perhaps from the future finding its way into Fëanor’s mind. And for once, there’s light again, a strange vague feeling of hope.

Letting go of Fëanor’s hand, Námo states, “My compassion for you was inconvenient. Speaking the prophecy has caused me much grief, for my heart has wept for you when it should not. And Alqualondë has sparked much anger, for your actions were cruel and unjust.”

“None of it can’t be undone. What I created and begun will prevail; sometimes, I still hear the Oath’s whispering faintly in my mind.”

“Sometimes, beauty is formed from tragedy.” The words are nothing more than an idle statement from the Vala, yet they keep ringing in Fëanor’s ears.

Fëanor gives Námo a stare, a cloak of coldness suddenly wrapping around his body. “What do you mean?”

“Without the tragedy of the theft of the Silmarils, without the tragedy of Alqualondë and your banishment; without the tragedy of your death – you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

Suspicion coils in Fëanor’s stomach. “And that you call beauty?” he inquires, wrinkling his nose.

“Quite.” Námo appears flustered, and ultimately, Fëanor’s curiosity is piqued. There’s more to this than a simple invitation. But in his loneliness Fëanor has become too blind to see.

Fëanor dares a closer look.

There’s some scheme behind Námo’s actions.

The kindness.

The return of his body.

The conversation between Námo and Irmo he has overheard.

And now this.

Fëanor’s mind is set: tonight, he’ll find out what the scheme is, no matter at what cost.

Fëanor has learned long ago to never let his true feeling show when it serves his interests. So he smiles and plays along, allowing fleeting touches to speak when words forsake him as a result of the answers he draws from Námo’s lips. Námo seems entirely oblivious to the game Fëanor is playing. Each smile, each touch, no matter how fleeting it is, makes Námo turn to molten wax in Fëanor’s hands, ready to be formed. 

_‘Lovesick fool,’_ Fëanor thinks, struggling to swallow down the snort.

It’s mesmerizing to watch how a brush of fingers renders Námo speechless; how his eyes turn dark whenever Fëanor edges closer; the hitch of breath whenever Fëanor’s eats a grape, allowing his fingers to linger on his own lips a moment too long. Yet Fëanor would be lying to say the way Námo regards him doesn’t hold him enthralled in a way he never thought it would. His mind is running riot with too many _what ifs._ And yet he mustn’t be swayed. Fëanor seeks an answer to the question that truly matters.

It’s time to test his luck in earnest.

Instead of pushing the grape caught between his fingers into his own mouth, he extends his arm so that Námo’s gaze falls onto it. Instead of reproving him for his boldness, Námo tilts his head backwards just a little, opening his mouth to accept the grape. The Vala’s breath hitches, just as Fëanor’s own at the sight. He presses the grape against Námo’s lips. He accepts it, smiling, and for the blink of an eye, Fëanor feels as if he’s witnessing something he isn’t meant to see. 

He provides another grape, and yet another. This seems familiar in a way Fëanor cannot quite remember.

Námo allows his eyes to fall shut for a brief moment. “What did you once say? _‘I won’t waste my life in thralldom and sit idle at the Valar’s feet.’_ – wasn’t it that?”

“That sounds a lot like me,” Fëanor laughs, picking up another bunch of grapes, then leaning in. This time so close that their bodies are almost touching.

As he shifts, the light catches in Námo’s eyes. “And yet here you are, feeding me grapes.”

Fëanor doesn’t say anything, then smiles.

Námo raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

Fëanor hears his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. “I was just considering something.”

“Are you inclined to elaborate?” Námo asks, smiling.

“Quite.”

Fëanor stands and rounds the table, sitting down on one of the cushions laid out on the floor in front of the day bed. “Not at your feet exactly, but sort of.”

“That can be changed.” Námo lifts one leg off the couch, placing it next to Fëanor. “Are you attempting to flirt with me?”

“Haven’t we been flirting all the while?”

“So one might say, yes.”

“You don’t seem to mind,” Fëanor states with a smile, letting his hand run along Námo’s thigh. The effect it has is striking, as Námo’s breath hitches audibly.

“Bold of you to assume that you can read me,” Námo murmurs, lost in the sensation Fëanor’s fingers bring.

It’s hard to suppress the laughter. Among all those Fëanor has ever tried to read, Námo is like an open book tonight. “Am I wrong?” Fëanor has never declined a challenge. He knows he’s right, has never been more certain before. And as to prove a point, he presses his hand against Námo’s thigh. “You like me bold and reckless.” 

“It’s true,” Námo nods, and to Fëanor it is as if he’s observing a hint of a blush. “I love to see that fire in your eyes.”

“I’m quite certain you equally loathed that fire in my eyes.”

“Sometimes, hate and love are hardly separable,” Námo agrees, wrapping his arms around Fëanor’s waist to pull him even closer. “Not even then did I wish to see that fire quenched.”

“Did my presence excite you?” Fëanor murmurs.

“Does it excite you when I tell you it did?” Námo whispers in response.

“It does,” Fëanor states. “You want me.”

The Vala’s voice is nothing more than a whisper. “I’ve wanted you all my life. But do not divert: assuming you are correct in your assumption that you can read me: what would you do next?”

Fëanor feels daring. “I would...” he says, rising. Then he leans in, so that their lips are almost touching.

Námo grabs him by the collar of his tunic.

Fëanor’s body freezes. He had not expected that.

“My halls, my terms,” Námo rasps, both voice and gaze provocative. “A bit of respect – and for that matter, obedience would serve you well. Having you sit demurely at my feet is something I could get used to.”

_Fuck your terms._

Fëanor doesn’t say it. He doesn’t struggle free, either. Parts of the puzzle are still missing, and hence he needs to play along.

Fëanor gasps. “The laws and customs that were placed upon us by your brethren? Your own laws?” He asks, mostly because it’s the first thing that had come to his mind.

“Aren’t my domain,” Námo says with a dismissive wave of his hand, letting go of Fëanor. “Let the living abide those laws. I never cared."

Fëanor’s eyes grow wide. “You _never_ cared?”

That simple word implies so much, and suddenly everything falls into place. Those strange eyes; how his spirit had soared during climax; the fact that nobody in the Halls of Awaiting knew Aláriel. He had assumed that Aláriel is one of the Maiar – when in fact it had been Námo in disguise.

The look he catches on Námo’s face – shock, then shame – is the final proof.

Within a heartbeat, Fëanor’s excitement turns to disappointment, then anger.

Unspeakable rage bubbles in Fëanor’s guts. He jumps to his feet, hands balled into fists. “You… you...!”He is so angry that words forsake him, sour bile gathering in his mouth. “It was you?”

Námo’s gaze drops to the floor. “Yes,” he mumbles.

“And that is all you have to say?”

Námo shakes his head. “Perhaps, you remember the golden bowl with pomegranates that I brought along one day. They grow in the fenced courtyard – it is said that those who consume from the Realm of the Dead will be bound to it forever. And yes – before you ask. That was my intention.” 

Fëanor’s body freezes yet again. He wants to rage and scream but can’t.

Námo goes on, saying, “And yet, when I lay in your arms, I could not bring myself to do it. I had not considered the further meaning of the line – I wasn’t aware. You did not consume the pomegranate; but instead you consumed me.”

Dead calm settles in Fëanor’s eyes. “I would never have lain with _you_.”

He looks down at Námo in disdain.

“ _Ever_.” Fëanor doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t have to.

Námo looks at him as if struck, unable to keep his composure. Fëanor sees shock spread across the Vala’s face; hurt and sadness.

“You can’t mean it,” Námo whispers.

Fëanor lets the silence speak for him, taking the time to observe his triumph. He hadn’t felt so alive in centuries.

“I can, and I do. Your obsession with me has rendered you a love-sick fool. A little pretense of sincere interest and – alas, here we are. Do you truly think I’d be interested after everything you’ve done? You tricked me, deceived me! Came to me in disguise – and that you call beauty, even love.”

Fëanor tilts his head away from Námo, then turns around and walks down the stairs. Right there, he turns around again. “You gave me my body back, and I thought you did it to comfort me, when in truth it was so that you can stare at me once more.”

“Fëanáro, please,” Námo begs, tears trickling from the corner of his eyes.

He hadn’t known that the Gods are even capable of shedding tears and now he sees it with his own eyes.

“Spare yourself the words,” Fëanor hisses in disdain, gaze fixed on Námo’s face. The gold in his eyes is gone, subsided by the shade of purple he’s been so familiar with now.

The triumph in Fëanor’s heart is endless, and he’s smiling as he turns around, walking towards the corridor from where he had come.

“Fëanáro.” Námo’s tone has changed towards desperation, a sound being pulled deep from his guts. “Please, allow me to explain this.”

Fëanor shakes his head. “Are you at last feeling guilty for thousand years of lies?” He doesn’t bother to turn around. “Or merely annoyed by the fact I ruined your oh so well thought out plan?”

 ** _“Please.”_** Námo’s cries of desperation are getting louder by the second.

Fëanor hears, but doesn’t react, taking step after step, spine straightened.

“Please! Don’t go. Look at me, please.” A whine bleeds from the Vala’s lips. “I’ll do everything you want,” he adds, voice breaking.

Fëanor spins around. 

Námo’s eyes flutter, and his jaw is working like he’s biting down the words.

“Everything?” Fëanor coos, observing the dark circles surrounding the Vala’s guilt-haunted eyes.

Námo drops to his knees, one arm raised into the air whilst the other remains pressed against his chest, “Yes,” he breathes, lips trembling from the effort holding Fëanor’s gaze.

He won’t be swayed. Not by tears, nor lies; by idle words least of all, and yet he pretends to be for his own vicious amusement.

“Yes?” he asks, taking a deliberate step forward.

Hope flashes across Námo’s face, gold returning to his eyes. “No matter what you’ll ask, I do it.”

Fëanor’s smile is sordid. “I’ll think about it,” he says, when in fact, he feels like screaming _‘Go to hell!’_. But no hell can’t be worse than the one he already resides in.

Fëanor takes his leave, accompanied by the sound of Námo’s crying echoing against the walls.

*


	8. To Melt; to Burn

*

When finally alone, Fëanor allows himself to drown in his emotions.

He’s shocked; he’s furious, disappointed, angered, shaking and screaming and crying. The deceit is ugly in the worst way. When his voice forsakes him, he screams in silence until breath forsakes him, too. Then, Fëanor hammers at the black walls until his hands are bruised and bloody.

His body is aching, but not enough to divert his mind’s pain.

His anger swells and ebbs like the never-ending tide of the sea; there is fury and resentment; guilt, and hurt. Whenever it feels too much to bear, he forces his mind towards memories of better days: when he used to tell story after story to his children around the crackling fire. But these memories never last. After a short time, all he ever sees is Aláriel’s face.

It’s wretched dark magic that reigns in his mind.

Why else would he see the moments of deceit so clearly? The fury shifts, anger now directed at himself. It’s burning brightly in his chest, hissing, and snarling.

How could he allow to let all defenses slip – now, and then, in the woods of Formenos?

And yet, the memory of heated kisses amidst the raging storm makes Fëanor ache in long-forgotten ways.

His knuckles grow white beneath the dried blood as Fëanor fists his hands with force. Violent spasms drown out the memories, and bitter tears stream down his face.

All energy is drained from Fëanor’s body; all air fled from his lungs. He can’t think, can’t scream, cannot even cry anymore.

He sinks down on his cot and closes his eyes. In the darkness of his room, he wishes to die again – in any way that would get him out of the wretched halls.

He remembers Aláriel’s face; the way they had laughed and sighed and loved so long ago, the memory bringing forth a shudder. The longer he thinks of it, despite doesn’t want to think about it, the more intense the dull throb behind his eyes gets, hammering.

Fëanor curls into a ball, hiding from the world and his own thoughts. Not even that brings him comfort. He shifts in his cot, left, right, left again, then settles on his back. He tries to clear his mind of any thoughts, closing his eyes for a moment. Yet even as he does, small sparks of defiance begin to blossom.

He’s Fëanor, Finwë’s firstborn son, composed of fire and rage.

He won’t toss around in his bed in an attempt to find comfort.

_Deceit!_

He won’t cower, won’t hide.

Anger flashes and Fëanor allows it to reign his mind. It helps to ease his _pain and hence allows him to think clearly again._

_Drowning in misery has never been Fëanor’s way to deal with things – quite the opposite. When he had been meant to hide, he had paraded the streets of Tirion unfazed. In exile, he had resided and held court like a king, well aware that his defiance wasn’t approved of at all._

_Defiance._

It is about time to bring it back, and it is with these thoughts, that Fëanor finally drifts into sleep.

  


* * *

  


Fëanor avoids Námo’s presence, but he makes certain to be seen.

He spends as much time with the Maiar as possible, preferably simply accompanying them during their daily journey through the halls. He has done nothing wrong; then why should he hide to the shadows as he once had done?

Whenever he passes Námo, he straightens his posture further, eyes directed straight ahead. And each time it happens, he smiles inwardly, from the power he suddenly holds. It spurs his defiance and quenches the twisting, gnawing pain of betrayal inside his soul. 

“You’ve changed,” a Maia remarks one day.

Fëanor smiles. “Weren’t I supposed to?”

The Maia nods. “You were, yes.”

“You know how my father was killed.” Fëanor hasn’t spoken of his father in ages. He now does because it serves his purpose.

“Of course. A tragedy.” The Maia sounds outraged, much to Fëanor’s delight. It’s going well. “I served in these halls when Melkor was kept a prisoner here.”

“Have you?” Fëanor feigns surprise. He knows about that from another Maia, and it’s the reason why he has approached him. “My father was killed by Morgoth; I was killed by his wretched creatures. He had captured my eldest son, and chained him to his dark fortress, like a flag of warning. He should have never left these halls.”

The Maia looks behind them. “I agree,” he says. “We all do.”

“You said I have changed,” Fëanor carefully ventures, making certain he doesn’t sound too oblivious. “And indeed I’ve thought much about my past – of what I have said and done: The Oath, threatening my half-brother with the blade – it wasn’t just. I deserted my father when he needed me most. I’ll never forgive myself for that. What I desire most is to see Morgoth suffer for his crimes – for slaying my father, for stealing my creations, for killing the Two Trees. I want to see him punished, I want to see him chained and rotten – or at least I wish to imagine it. Could I go and see where once he was chained?”

The Maia’s eyes have grown wide. “You know whom you are about to ask,” he says, voice dropping as if he’s afraid to be heard.

Fëanor has expected that. “And you know the answer I will receive.”

The Maia nods.

“See?” Fëanor says, equally secretive. “That’s why I’ve always been hesitant to ask for anything. What harm should come from simply seeing the dark cell for a moment? Why deny my wish to reflect and properly heal? I don’t expect you to defy your orders – I don’t even want to. I can go myself and surely my brief absence won’t be noticed. All you have to do is to tell me where to go.”

The Maia sighs. “There’s not much to see down there.”

Fëanor’s smile is gentle. “So there’s even less a reason why I shouldn’t go.”

The Maia lowers his voice even further. “You know the fountain with the massive basin, yes?”

Fëanor nods. He has passed the fountain almost daily during his wanderings.

“Ten identical knobs are hewn into the stone,” the Maia explains. “One of them bears a golden circle, small, very hard to miss. Turning it leads to a secret passageway.”

Fëanor inclines his head. “Thank you.”

He’s tempted to go immediately but he doesn’t want the Maia to receive the blame if he’s caught going where he’s not allowed to wander.

Instead, he talks to as many Maiar as possible that day then keeps to his room for a couple of days not to raise suspicion. After all, he has all the time in the world, if he were not as impatient as he is. His curiosity has often led to rash decisions in the past. On the fifth day, he can’t keep his excitement at bay any longer.

Everyone has become so used to his presence in the corridors that he’s never questioned about his whereabouts, for which he is glad. Fëanor doesn’t go straight to the fountain but walks here and there, chatting and smiling, despite not feeling like it at all. When finally he stands in front of the fountain he waits, listening that he hadn’t been followed accidentally. Only when he’s certain he’s alone he begins to look for the anomaly described to him.

It’s not that one.

Not the next one either.

Not the third, fourth, fifth,

And he already feels as if he’s been tricked when he inspects the fifth knob again. The mark is so tiny, so easily missed.

Triumph flashes on his face before he’s able to conceal it. 

Turning the knob indeed unlocks a hidden door, through which Fëanor slips quietly inside, pulling it shut behind him. The place is even less lit than all the rest, yet he is grateful that it is at all.

Despite being unable to smell it, Fëanor is convinced the air is stale and poisonous, just as Morgoth’s words and breath. He walks down the stairs until he comes to a corridor and another stair. The way down is clearly defined. There are no twists and turns, only down and further down until he stands in a lofty hall. The pillars that support the structure are pitch black, not even reflecting the light the torch spills forth.

Fëanor takes a moment to look around, craning his neck before he lifts the torch out of its hold. The light guides his way through a narrow corridor with cells to either side. There are no doors to bar them, Fëanor notices immediately. When occupied, they must be locked by strange magic, a thought that fills him with unease.

_But have they ever been occupied?_

The unease does not prevail and he steps inside. The cell is small, much smaller than the room above he’s been living in. A set of chains dangles from the wall, just above Fëanor’s head, reflecting the light of the torch.

Fëanor takes a closer look. The metal looks like an alloy of silver and gold that glows against the skin of his hands. Despite the fact that they hang there for eons the chains are shining as if they are polished every day. He doubts that they are. Fëanor snatches his hand away, suddenly becoming aware of the fact that the metal has never been cool against his skin as it’s supposed to be. It’s pleasantly warm as if strange magic lives within the material. He likes that even less than the missing doors.

He withdraws from the cell, continuing walking down the narrow corridor until he reaches a dead end. An iron gate bars Fëanor’s way. He tries to press down the handle, but for the first time, something doesn’t give way to his touch.

There’s no key, no other obvious mechanism that would open the gate, so it must be magic yet again. He pushes the torch through the bar, narrowing his eyes so that he might see what lies inside.

His gaze falls on massive chains, scattered on the floor. Its fragments are thick as his upper arms, black as the everlasting darkness. Fëanor’s breath freezes in his lungs. It must have been here that Morgoth was once chained; where he should have remained for all eternity to rot. Sour bile gathers in his mouth and his body begins to shake from the memory of the dark towers of Angband where his stolen creations are hidden. Where Morgoth will reside until all eternity.

Fëanor decides he has seen enough. He turns around and rushes through the darkness, almost falling over his own feet; he simply wants to get out of that wretched place as quickly as possible. 

Back in his room, Fëanor drifts into a restless sleep after a while.

*

When he stirs awake, his body is aching as if he had spent hours in the training yard. Fëanor can’t be bothered to get up. He settles on his back, staring at the ceiling, going over the memories of the dark vaults. Now, that he has seen them, he understands even less why he isn’t allowed to go there. It is cells hewn into the rocks, a few chains, but little else. The tapestries are far more interesting. He doesn’t understand the restriction to either but doesn’t find the mental energy to dwell on these thoughts.

Fëanor drifts back and forth between sleep and wakefulness when suddenly a voice begins to whisper in his head.

 _‘Everything.’_ It echoes in his mind.

_‘Everything.’_

The voice persists, no matter how hard Fëanor tries to push it out of his mind. _‘You would decline what is freely offered? You, who have craved power all your life?’_

Fëanor ignores the questions, trying to go back to sleep.

_‘Everything?’_

_‘This doesn’t sound like you at all.’_

It’s a hopeless cause. Fëanor sits up with a groan.

And from there, his mind begins to wander. Fëanor has always strived for what he shouldn’t have, and whilst being alive that only have been fleeting dreams confined to his fantasies, in death he has the opportunity to bring them to life. Those who live like the Gods have always been surrounded by slaves of various kinds; little wonder, that he had spoken of thralldom so long ago. It’s exactly that. What, however, if suddenly the Gods are reduced to slaves?

Fëanor wishes he could resist his thoughts, but the idea has already settled. He’s seen Námo on his knees already, begging – what if he could make him? It’s an idle game of power, nothing else, Fëanor tells himself for the sake of his own peace of mind.

His body is not so easily swayed by the lie. It takes him a moment to realize that he has been physically reacting to the image his mind has constructed, despite having never been a sexual fantasy in the first place.

And yet, there’s something inherently sexual in the way the Vala’s hand are tied above his head. Námo is sweating, straining; begging, for Fëanor to stop and to go on at the same time, eyes never daring to fall shut until he’s reduced to a quivering mess.

The next time Fëanor meets one of the Maia he requests pen and paper.

Then, he sits down with a smile and allows his mind to drift.

The first thing Fëanor notices, much to his dismay, is that he lacks most of what would be actually useful. There are no horses in the Halls of Awaiting, and therefore no riding crops; there aren’t even belts. And yet that is exactly what he craves. It’s frustrating. There’s nothing uninspiring in whipping if done properly; nothing crude in that form of violence, and gleefully Fëanor smiles. It’s artful in its very own way when pale skin is turned into a canvas. He would never break skin wantonly for that is crude, but there would be something beautiful in long straight lines running crisscross over Námo’s back.

Fëanor allows his eyes to fall shut. He feels himself standing before the Vala who’s chained to the wall with the chains around his wrists, the ones Fëanor had seen in the vaults. But it’s not down there where this comes to pass, rather in the Vala’s private quarters. Námo stands with his back to him, stripped down except loose trousers. Pale skin glitters in the golden light of the candles, so far unmarred and Fëanor allows a finger to sweep over it in a mocking caress.

For a few strikes, Námo manages to keep his composure, resulting in Fëanor striking harder. This time, blood is drawn and Námo writhes against the restrains.

 _‘Hold still,’_ Fëanor murmurs in chastisement, then takes a step back to watch Námo, struggling to obey the command. Power surges through Fëanor’s veins; of a sort, he had never dared to imagine he would ever wield. It’s incredibly addictive.

Fëanor groans opening his eyes again. His cock is hard against his belly from unwanted waves of arousal. This shouldn’t be happening – and yet. Once he has tasted the forbidden in his dreams, Fëanor finds himself yearning for it. For that transcended state of euphoria wielding power could bring.

He allows his mind to wander once more. There are no riding crops; no whips, nor ropes in the Halls of Awaiting. What can be found in abundance though are candles. Small, large, slim, black and red, and silver.

_‘Oh this is perfect, isn’t it?’_

Fëanor shakes both with laughter and anticipation. Many things are perfect – and equally delightful about the perfidious plan, which has formed in his mind. He won’t tarry long to bring it to life.

Fëanor allows his fantasies to roam his mind for a few more days.

Then, he strides into the great hall, coming to halt a few steps away from Námo’s throne.

“I request an audience,” Fëanor says the moment he’s certain he has Námo’s full attention, head raised and shoulders squared. He had not once taken into consideration that Námo might refuse his request, not until now. Perhaps he should have?

“You may have it. Speak your mind.” Námo says, and although he tries to sound indifferent, it’s so beautifully obvious to Fëanor that he is not.

Fëanor can’t be bothered to drop his voice. “In private.”

Námo’s mouth twitches. “You know where to find me, then.”

Fëanor bridges the distance between them, and only then he notices that all color seems to have dissipated from Námo’s eyes; the purple is gone, subsided by a greyish-blue like the sea on a misty day. “I do. This time, however, I request to be received with an attire befitting my former rank and status.”

Námo nods. “I will see to that.”

Victory flashes across Fëanor’s face, and only when he’s certain that Námo has seen it, he wordlessly turns around and leaves.

  


* * *

  


The pieces for Fëanor’s game are set. But for a while, he refuses to play.

He won’t give Námo the satisfaction of knowing how desperate he has become. Instead, he polishes the words he has long written down, refusing to let himself dream again.

That is, in the end, what makes Fëanor lose his patience.

He steps through the door to Námo’s quarters without even a glimpse of guilt of what he’s about to request, striding through the narrow corridor with a giddy smile, which he conceals the moment he steps into the brightly lit room.

This time, Námo stands up from the day bed, acknowledging Fëanor’s presence by inclining his head. Just as requested, Námo’s attire matches Fëanor’s wish, a fact he’s quite pleased with. Instead of the flimsy garment, he has worn the last time, Námo is dressed in formal robes, wearing the crown of spikes and thorns. His entire posture speaks of unease; as if the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders, his eyes filled with sadness.

Fëanor won’t be swayed – not by this, not by anything.

He bridges the distance between them, surprised that Námo steps down the stairs gaze cast to the floor.

Fëanor can’t be bothered with formalities, standing right in front of Námo. “I cannot forgive you for what you have done. I don’t want to forgive you.”

Námo’s fingers are fidgeting with his rings, hurt flickering in his lifeless eyes. The bluish-grey has become permanent. “Then why have you come?” he asks, voice trembling

“Every crime deserves punishment,” Fëanor states, lifting his head a little higher.

“You may be correct in that,” Námo says, then tilts his head to the side, eyes falling shut. “Go on, then. Punish me”

Fëanor had not expected that, trying to school his features despite the fact that Námo’s eyes are closed.

There’s no beauty to crude violence, neither appeal nor challenge in physical chastisement. It has never intrigued Fëanor, even though he has used it to make a point. He won’t use it again to make a point.

“No.” He crosses his arms before his chest. “Crude violence is uninspiring.”

Námo tilts his head back to Fëanor, raising an eyebrow. “Uninspiring?”

“Yes,” Fëanor says, taking great delight in Námo’s visible confusion. “Predictable, and boring, although I won’t deny that striking you has come to my mind more than once, I won’t find any pleasure in that.”

 _Half-truth_. He chides himself, then adds aloud, “I have a much better idea.”

Fëanor allows his smile to shine through, just before he walks up the stairs and makes himself comfortable on the day bed, mimicking how Námo has received him the last time.

Námo seems lost, still standing there. “And that is?” he asks, voice almost forsaking him.

Fëanor pours himself a cup of wine. “You once spoke of thralldom,” he begins, then drinks. “So since you are familiar with the term, let us stick to it. You told me, you’ll do everything I want.”

“So I did, yes,” Námo says, looking up to Fëanor.

“And here we are,” Fëanor states, beckoning Námo to come closer with a flick of his hand.

The fact that Námo obeys like a well-trained dog fills Fëanor with the kind of delight his dreams have always lacked. “I have taken your proposal into consideration.”

Námo inclines his head. “You did?”

Fëanor’s voice does not betray anything. “Yes.”

Then he’s drinking again. “I have wondered what will happen if suddenly Gods are reduced to thralls.”

Fëanor observes Námo’s eyes grow wide. “I wouldn’t know. No-one knows since it has never happened.”

“And yet freely you offered to become my thrall, didn’t you?”

Námo tilts his head to the side. “Not quite, but yes, you may interpret it that way. I stand to what I have said – and offered.”

Fëanor laughs. “And that I shall believe you? You, who have already abused and betrayed my trust?” They are standing only inches apart. “No. I hardly deem an ordinary promise sufficient.”

Námo nods. “What do you want me to do?”

“Swear it.” Although nothing more than a fleeting whisper, Fëanor’s voice is sharper than a blade. “Swear your loyalty to me; your fealty.”

Námo coughs, looking at Fëanor as if struck. “No oath shall ever be sworn again in these lands, and you are well aware of why that is.”

Fëanor raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Are you already disobeying me?”

Námo shakes his head. “No.”

The sound is meek.

“Don’t avert your eyes when you speak to me,” Fëanor demands, bringing his fingers to Námo’s cheeks to ensure that he won’t look away. “Would you truly forsake what I freely offer? Being restrained by words that aren’t even your own?”

Námo remains silent.

Fëanor leans in, so close that their lips are almost touching. “Swear that you shall serve me; tend to my every need. That you won’t disobey me, no matter what I ask of you,” he whispers, relishing in the delight Námo’s visible struggle brings him. “Swear that you will love me to the end – by your king and queen; by the lands that are holy. _Kneel_ before me.”

Fëanor struggled to keep his composure when Námo obeys his command. He drops to his knees gracefully, eyes directed upwards. “You … you can’t make me do it. Not that…”

Fëanor’s smile is sordid, his voice soft like a gust of wind. “You don’t have to, you know. I can walk out of the hall now, and we’ll never speak again. Not about this; not at all for eons. Would you want that?”

The question is an entirely rhetorical one: Fëanor knows the answer, as does Námo. And yet, no sound disrupts the silence. “Would you survive that in your obsession?”

Fëanor sees Námo’s throat working, sees the struggle in his eyes; the hunger.

Námo draws in a deep breath. “You are insane.”

Then, he splays his hands against Fëanor’s thighs, holding Fëanor’s gaze. It is as if a curtain of darkness falls around them, the candles suddenly flickering violently as Námo raises his voice.

“I shall serve you; tend to your every need and give you everything you’ll ever ask for. I will never disobey you – nor question your choices, no matter what you’ll ask for all eons to come. I shall serve you faithfully until the world is remade.”

Not once does Námo blink; not once does his voice falter, but Fëanor’s breath hitches audible. Whilst Námo speaks, color returns to his eyes: purple first, then streaks of gold. Fëanor is grateful that his shirt covers his cock for the Oath affects him in a way he hadn’t thought it would.

“I will love you to the end, and this I swear – by these lands that are holy, by the snow-covered peak of Taniquetil, and Manwë and Varda shall be my witness.”

When Námo has finished, Fëanor is rock hard, cheeks flushed. He brings his index finger below Námo’s chin, smiling down at him. “This wasn’t hard, now was it?” he murmurs, a trembling finger now idly tracing the Vala’s lips. He’s tempted to just pull down his breeches and fuck the Námo’s mouth that so willingly parts for his finger seeking entrance. “Perhaps, once we shall renew this oath in front of a greater audience. Certainly, it’s in your powers to grant me leave for that from your halls?”

“I can’t release you.”

Fëanor shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I ask you to accompany me to the domed halls of Ilmarin, for everyone to see and witness what you’ve become.”

Námo stares at him in bewilderment. “You can’t mean it.”

Fëanor raises an eyebrow, which is enough to render Námo silent.

 _Damn._ It gets to him in a way he had never thought it would.

“I can,” Fëanor says, hating how is voice his affected by his thoughts. “And I do. Then – in due time. We do not need to dwell on that now.”

Námo opens his mouth, then shuts it again, gaping like a fish struggling for breath, and Fëanor takes great delight in that for a while.

Fëanor is leaning even closer, fingers tangling in Námo’s hair as he presses a kiss to the corner of the Vala’s mouth. “Undress.”

“What?” Námo snaps.

“You heard me well,” Fëanor says, tugging Námo’s hair, hard enough that his head is forced backward, gracing him with a predatory smile.

“ _Undress._ ”

Námo does not need to be told again. He begins to ease the buttons from their holes, removing his robes and undertunic under Fëanor’s appreciative gaze, whilst Fëanor wonders how many nights the Vala had lain awake, dreaming about him in a way he never should.

How often had he touched himself to his image?

Despite the fact that Fëanor quite likes what he sees, anger bubbles, and his thoughts edge close towards physical chastisement. He restrains himself. Such deeds speak of weakness, and only of that.

When Námo attempts to remove his crown, stripped down to his breeches, Fëanor stills the Vala’s hands. “Not that.”

Námo’s gaze flickers from Fëanor’s face to between his legs, then back up again. “Does this excite you?”

“It does,” Fëanor affirms, then grins. Námo’s eyes have turned golden yet again. “Just as yourself.”

Fëanor feels as if his body is on fire. The perfect moment has finally come for he decides that the Vala’s bare back is sufficient enough for what he has in mind. He reaches for the little bag, in which he has hidden tonight’s surprise.

He lets two identical metallic chains dangle before Námo’s face. “What about those?” He coos, unable to conceal his excitement. “I personally find the prospect of laying you in chains very exciting.”

Námo ignores Fëanor’s question, just as he had anticipated he would. “Where did you get these from?”

“The vaults?”

Námo sighs, shaking his head. “You weren’t supposed to go there.”

“Frankly speaking, I didn’t care.” Fëanor shrugs his shoulders. “Bring your hands behind your back.”

Fëanor sees Námo’s eyes fall closed, remaining otherwise immobile. He rounds the Vala, index finger running along his spine, then leans down towards Námo’s ear. “You would not dare to refuse me?”

It is not meant as a question – and Námo does not take it for one.

As Námo’s arms move to his back, Fëanor’s smile broadens.

“Very well.”

Fëanor wraps the chains around Námo’s wrists, securing them with the trigger hooks he has also found in the cell. The light-golden alloy glows against Námo’s skin, quite beautifully so. Fëanor pulls at the chains, pleased that they don’t come undone.

Yes, being immobilized like this will become uncomfortable in a while, but Fëanor does not think Námo is likely to complain. Not that he would care. He takes his time to appreciate how Námo kneels, head and back bent, probably a moment too long.

Námo looks at him across his shoulder. “How am I supposed to give you what you want when you don’t even know that yourself?” The Vala’s voice is a strained breath.

Fëanor’s finger traces along Námo’s throat, nails scraping along the unmarred skin.

“I know well enough,” he states, lips only a breath apart from Námo’s ear, in a way that makes the Vala tremble.

Fëanor lets his gaze drift towards the small table, retrieving one of the candles – slim but long, a bright red – from it.

There’s no warning before the first drop of wax lands on Námo’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Fëanor watches the drop cool and thicken, delighted how it sets itself apart from the pale skin. It’s hard to resist the urge to peel it off just then, but he wants to do that later, when Námo is writhing below him, struggling against the restraints. He’s not done yet, not even close. 

_Drip_ – another drop falls, then another.

Námo flinches.

And Fëanor smiles.

Until now, he hadn’t even known if the Gods are able to feel physical pain at all, something he had never taken into account whilst fantasizing.

Patience is soon lost in Fëanor’s urgency; rivers of molten wax fall down on Námo’s skin, slowly forming the symbol Fëanor had in mind all the while. The Vala’s flinching gives way to helpless trembling. He shifts, so that his head lies face down on the day bed, silver hair fanning across it. The muscles in his arms and back are taut as he strains at the chains, sucking in a desperate breath after Fëanor has narrowed the distance between the candle and Námo’s skin.

“Shh,” Fëanor whispers, thumb brushing along Námo’s spine. “I think you’ll need to learn a modicum of internal restraint; and in time, you will learn to appreciate my attention.”

Actually, Fëanor is quite convinced that Námo is already learning.

_Drip._

_Drip._

Fëanor never burns himself. Never misses the spots he aims at Námo’s skin, precise as he had always been, highly focused at the task at hand.

Námo presses his cheek against the day bed, eyes tightly shut. His cheeks are glowing, almost as red as the dots of wax on his skin. Fëanor stills his hand for a moment to appreciate it, then resumes his actions. The distance is much less than it ever been before, close enough that Námo must actually feel the heat of the flame. A wave of agony rips across Námo’s face and he inhales shakily. He won’t show mercy, not that Námo would ever want him to. By now his skin must be burning as if a thousand tiny fires are set ablaze, yet he does not complain.

“Is it too much, Lord of the Dead?” Fëanor whispers, not unkind. “Too much when suddenly, your fantasies are brought to life. Oh – or has it been the other way, in your dreams? A pity that this will never come to pass.”

Námo draws in a deep breath, opening his eyes. Fëanor finds the answer to his question right there: shame, confession, telling him more than he needs to know. Flames of excitement are churning in his guts. Námo knows what he must look like to Fëanor; knows what awaits him. That realization is striking. As much as Fëanor craves to have Námo begging, what excites him most is the imbalance of power between them. If Námo wanted to, he could simply slip out of the restraints; could throw Fëanor into the deepest vaults to rot forever. And yet, he’s surrendering himself to Fëanor’s whims and wishes. He would never defy him.

Fëanor runs a hand gently down the length of Námo’s spine. “You are doing so well.”

In his mind, the little game he has so carefully planned had been perfect; now, presented with the reality of Námo laid in chains, obeying whatever fantasy reigns Fëanor’s thoughts, it shatters into a thousand pieces. He’s deeply moved by Námo’s obedience, in a world made bent. It has become a world of glances; of lingering touches – a parallel world of illusions and desire, for only them to live in. 

Námo’s muscles tremble in exertion, screaming in protest against the restraints. The Vala is not using words right now, but he’s begging all the same.

Fëanor stills his hand, setting the candle aside. Then, he leans in, hands running along Námo’s sides. “Do you really want to stop me?”

Námo shakes his head, shuddering.

Fëanor’s lips curve into a sordid smile. “Body language is dangerous for misinterpretation. Say what you want.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Námo murmurs, still shaking. “Not now. Not ever.”

Originally, Fëanor has decided for the candle, because it puts a physical distance between himself from Námo; is less intimate than anything that requires touching. Fëanor questions his choices now, enthralled by a sort of beauty he hasn’t expected, and he finds himself unable to resist the temptation. He brushes Námo’s hair to the side, pressing his mouth just below Námo’s ear. There he scrapes the skin with his teeth before he begins sucking.

It’s high enough so that Námo will never succeed in covering it. It brings forth another smile from Fëanor, this time against the Vala’s skin.

“What are you doing?” Námo asks, panting.

“I did not grant you leave to speak,” Fëanor says, then allows the silence to speak for him for a moment. “But I will answer you regardless: marking you.”

“Marking me?”

“As mine.”

In fact, he has been marking Námo all the while. Fëanor is quite pleased with his work of art on Námo’s skin. An eight-pointed star, created from drops of wax adorns Námo’s back, and he’s certain, once he peels away the wax, angry red dots will live on for a couple of days.

“Until you gift me my forge, there are few possibilities for doing so,” Fëanor states, retrieving the candle again. He’s not done yet.

He has seen knives on the Maiar, but that kind of marking isn’t as appealing as his original idea: to put a silver collar around the Vala’s throat.

Námo sounds amused. “A forge?”

“Oh didn’t I tell you?” Fëanor feigns surprise. “The vaults are a waste of space. I’ve inspected the rooms and with a few adjustments, they are perfectly suited for what I have in mind. You wouldn’t deny me that wish, would you?” Fëanor says, bringing the candle closer to Námo’s skin than ever before. It’s the middle dot of the eight-pointed star.

“ _No_.”

The way Námo says it goes straight to his cock.

Fëanor struggles to pull his mask of indifference back into place quickly enough when Námo lifts his head a little, giving him a stare over his shoulder. Fëanor is more affected by Námo’s obvious arousal, by what he does than he’d ever dare to let shine through

To see Námo so – wrecked, flushed and panting caused by his own hands gets to Fëanor in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Without having touched for a while – or having been touched he’s rock hard, his breath ragged. 

“Good,” Fëanor rasps, unable to sound indifferent any longer “For I ask you for many things: a forge. Ropes. A riding crop.”

“Oh Fëanáro,” Námo sighs, amused. The smile in Námo’s voice is hard to miss. “All you had to do is ask.”

For the first time since he has started, his hand trembles. “What… if I ask you now?”

“I will show you,” Námo says, lips curved into a smile. “But for that, you have to remove the restraints first.”

That night, the kingdom of death isn’t joyless at all.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Many inspirations were used to bring this story to life...**   
> 
> 
>   * The Hades and Persephone myth, quite obviously
>   * Deine Lakaien for the title.
>   * In its entirety: Metamorphoses by Ovid.
>   * The myth of Daedalus' labyrinth built for King Minos of Crete
>   * Blind Guardian's album Nightfall in Middle-Earth, especially track four and six.
>   * Peter S. Beagle's Last Unicorn has also found its way into the story. I'm sorry, I could not resist sneaking in Fëanor searching the Noldor just as Lady Amalthea searches for her kin in King Haggard's labyrinth.
>   * The Blue Mosque in Istanbul for The Halls of Awaiting, specifically Námo's throne hall with the great chandelier.
>   * The small island of San Servolo (Venice) served as inspiration for the fenced courtyard in Námo's Halls. There even grows a pomegranate tree.
>   * Although it has been a good while ago when I read these stories about Fëanor's spirit, I am quite certain parts of them inspired this work. Check them out, they are awesome! [Fëanor in the Halls of Mandos by bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759326) and [Quenta Narquelion by bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702726/chapters/28966347)
>   * This incredible piece of art of Orpheus & Eurydice [by Anastasia Shevchenko](https://www.artstation.com/artwork/lVqnKa)
>   * [Nercali's gorgeous art](https://www.deviantart.com/nercali) for Námo's flirtatious outfit and his jewelry.
>   * Leopold von Sacher-Masoch (Venus in Furs) for the title of Chapter 07, _“Love knows no virtue, no merit; it loves and forgives and tolerates everything because it must. We are not guided by reason, nor do the assets or blemishes that we discover tempt us to devotion or intimidate us. It is a sweet, mournful, mysterious power that drives us, and we stop thinking, feeling, wishing, we let ourselves drift along and never ask where we are drifting.”_
>   * The nine Maiar who accompany Fëanor into the Halls of Awaiting: I chose the number nine for there are nine judges at the Supreme Court.
>   * This incredible piece of art of Hades & Persephone on the River Styx [by Pandora Young](https://www.artstation.com/artwork/gYRyx)
>   * The amazing Eönwë/Mairon fanfiction [Chasing Mirages by Russandol @ SWG](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=955)
>   * I once shared my thoughts about Námo's Maiar; the post can be found here: [Námo's Maiar for Terrifying Tolkien Week 2015](https://feanope.tumblr.com/post/131797922270/n%C3%A1mos-maiar-for-maiar-week-2015)
> 



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